


get along with you

by olavidalo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Full Tags in Author's Note, Grief, Horror, Loss of Autonomy, M/M, Multi, Serious Consent Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olavidalo/pseuds/olavidalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first, it feels like a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> ( **Full Tags:** Ongoing Loss of Personhood/Identity, Extremely Dubious Consent, Attempted Non-Con, Continuous Psychological Trauma, Depression, Disassociation, Disordered Thinking + Eating, Suicidal Impulses, Drug Abuse, Forced Intimacy, Toxic Behavior, Dysfunctional Relationships, Controlling + Manipulative Behavior, Infidelity, Power Dynamics, Ableism, Class Difference, Racism, POV Switches)
> 
> Whoo. I wrote the very, very beginnings of this back in September, had a bit of a laptop malfunction, and then finally got around to fleshing it out in earnest early this month. It's the longest fic I've ever written, and also one of the darkest. Read with caution (and please do not take your interpersonal/moral cues from the characters below :)
> 
> I. Egregious lies. Unbeta'ed, unbritpicked lies.  
> II. Title from the Kelis song of the same name. Basic premise lifted from _Ikemen-kun to Saenai-kun_ ; also influenced by _Honey Bunny!_  
> 

  
  
  
  
  
_O sea, I am fed up_  
 _I want to be simple_  
 _I want to be loved_  
  
  
  
  
  
There's nothing special about seeing Zayn naked.  
  
The first time it happens, in fact, Harry isn't even phased: he just tip-toes back out of the bedroom and wonders if Liam is more likely to be out on the beach or in the garden. He already knew Zayn slept in the nude; Liam's mentioned the 'inconvenience' only a couple hundred times.  
  
He did not, however, know that Zayn would be spending the weekend with them.  
  
And really, Liam could've bothered to give him some heads-up. Harry and Zayn get on...well enough. But if he'd known Liam would be bringing his boyfriend to what was supposed to be a three-day getaway for two, he would've invited Taylor along as well. (Alright, well. Maybe Kendall. Taylor seems to be getting serious about him, a bit.)  
  
Now he's stuck a third wheel in an old sea cottage whose most interesting feature is that it's approximately a million miles away from any relevant human population.  
  
Lovely.

 

* * *

 

'I didn't know you'd tattoos,' he mentions later, unthinkingly, when Liam goes to get another Lafite from the cellar.  
  
A school teacher who buttons up to the collar – thick bulky black glasses, hair gelled to perfect stillness, stiff-straight smiles that come easily but only sometimes reach his eyes. The smell of cigarettes. These are the things Harry thinks of whenever Liam mentions Zayn. If he'd not seen his back, he wouldn't have ever guessed that it was scattered with circles. Possibly they form a coherent shape; Harry hadn't really stopped to look.  
  
Zayn looks up from silently contemplating his empty wineglass – they're terrible at small talk – to blink at him in surprise.  
  
That's when Harry realises his mistake. 'Oh, Liam mentioned them,' is the lie he comes up with, in response to the silent question. 'But I don't see any...?' He taps his knee three times and then makes himself keep his hands still in his lap. 'Though I guess it makes sense that you'd cover them up, what with you. y'know. teaching impressionable youths and all.'  
  
He grins, so Zayn knows he's not making fun of him for having a job.  
  
'Impressionable youths, yea,' Zayn scoffs, and this time his smile does reach his eyes. 'Here. look.' He leans across the couch (across Liam's vacated spot) and rolls down his right sleeve, tilts his arm so Harry can see the blue-green vein beneath the skin. 'See?' he murmurs, pointing to the puzzle piece near his elbow; and it's then that Harry notices his fingertips and palms are smudged black with ink.  
  
He's busy writing, Liam said, earlier that evening, when Harry asked why Zayn hadn't joined them out on the beach.  
  
Writing what? he asked.  
  
I dunno, Liam shrugged. A wind came from the west; as one, they shivered. He'll show me when he's done.

 

* * *

 

Saturday they're supposed to do some grilling. Liam decides he wants to take the car out for a bit of a drive before noon.  
  
'It won't take long, promise,' he says, as though Harry hasn't known him all of his life, as though he doesn't know that 'a bit of a drive' with Liam unfailingly turns into hours upon hours of hiking and taking pictures of birds. And not even the exciting kind - like actual, literal birds.  
  
'Not really feeling up to it,' Harry says, and he burrows back against the couch pillows with a pathetic face. Liam shrugs agreeably, as Harry knew he would.  
  
But then Zayn says: 'weren't you just saying you wanted to go for a run at breakfast?' and nearly ruins everything. 'C'mon, bro. Won't be that bad.'  
  
His face says he knows it _will_ be that bad, and Harry had better suck it up and come along anyway.  
  
While Harry can objectively appreciate Zayn's attempts to spread the suffering out more evenly between the two of them, he's been handling Liam for a lot longer than even Danielle'd lasted, so.  
  
'It's not that I think it'll be bad at all,' he says, causing Liam to throw Zayn a wounded look of realisation. Ha. 'I _do_ want to go. It's just. I'm still feeling a bit jet-lagged? But--I guess I c-o-ould--' Liam nearly shoves him back into his room down the hall before he's finished his sentence, makes him promise to lie down and take it easy.  
  
By the time their rental's pulled off, Harry's already creeping up the stairs. Like he's going to waste an opportunity to snoop around.  
  
Zayn is just as uninteresting as one might expect a live-in boyfriend of Liam's to be. In his pack, Harry finds three books and two pairs of trousers; a journal filled with scribbled stories, sketches and to-do lists; some unlabelled pills; a Bic lighter; some tees and pants; a scratched-up iPod; unflavoured lube; a carton of Reds (empty, save for two); and a folder's worth of essays – _A Memory That Is Very Important To Me_ – a third of the way marked-up.  
  
In Liam's pack, Harry finds a ring.  
  
Zayn's fingers are longer and wider than Harry's; the ring fits best 'round his middle, above his glittery skull. 'Oh, are you sure?' he says, loudly, as though he's not alone in the room. He grabs a pillow off the bed, pretends as though he's been asked to dance. Recreates the lazy waltz he'd watched Zayn walk through last Christmas. Soon his feet find the right steps anyway.  
  
One summer in Bordeaux, in a locked room not much larger than this one, Liam had made him practise again and again until they could both waltz in their sleep. When they'd demonstrated for their parents and sisters, Harry's technique had been flawless; it was Liam who tripped. All the same, it was Liam who ended up with all the praise. 'Can't imagine how long it took to get this one into working shape,' Ruth had said, with a pinch to Harry's cheek. 'A true saint,' Gem had teased, while Liam blushed mottle-red beside her.  
  
It was easy to hate him, back then.  
  
Harry catches sight of his reflection in the mirror on the wall and stumbles so suddenly he ends up knocking his knee against the end of the bedpost. 'Oww.'  
  
He flops back against the bed with the pillow still clutched to his chest. Says something so quiet he can barely hear himself, so quiet it might as well not've been spoken aloud, so quiet it might not even be true.

 

* * *

 

True to form, Liam returns with 50+ photos of birds. It might just be the same vain gull, posing in many exciting rocky locales. Admittedly, some of the photos are framed rather nicely, and Harry may or may not get a bit distracted looking at them--  
  
'Haz, Zayn and I are going to go up for a little nap, okay?' Harry unhunches from his place on the armchair, feeling a bit lost. His legs are all tense - how long has he been sat there?  
  
'Oh,' he says. He flicks his eyes to Zayn on the stairwell (who looks restless, rather than tired), then looks back at Liam. 'Did you want your mobile back?'  
  
Liam waves him off, already yawning. 'Think I've had my fill,' he says.  
  
'Alright, well,' says Harry. 'Love you.'  
  
Liam mumbles in response. Zayn reaches back for his hand without looking, leads them upstairs.  
  
A _nap_. Harry stretches out his legs, winces at the stiffness. Just when, he wonders, did he and Liam turn into old men.

 

* * *

 

 _*please* tell me ur at least having an orgy up there_ , texts Nick, later, after supper.  
  
Harry is, for perhaps the only time in his life, not in the mood. _not even close :) x_

* * *

 

In the night, he bumps into someone on his way back from the bathroom. It smells like--  
  
'Liam?' he mumbles, sleepily, though he knows, as soon as he says it, as soon as he takes a step back, that it's Zayn. 'Oh. Zayn.'  
  
'Harry,' Zayn acknowledges, equally indifferent. He's got Liam's jacket on, the one Harry got him five birthdays ago, when he gained all that weight. He's wearing a cigarette behind his ear, no glasses - he looks faintly impatient.  
  
'Oh, are you going outside?' Harry asks, though it's clear he is. 'Hold on, let me get my coat.'  
  
Zayn's face clears in surprise. 'Oh, uh. 'k,' he mumbles. He hovers near the back door while Harry rummages in the closet, raises a brow when Harry comes forward wearing two lopsided beanies and a heavy scarf.  
  
'I get cold easily,' Harry explains, struggling with his zip. Zayn pushes his hands away, straightens each side, zips it up to Harry's chin.  
  
'There we go,' he murmurs, patting Harry on the shoulder decisively.  
  
He's very good-looking, Harry thinks darkly, and decides at the last minute to tug his top beanie (the pink Hello Kitty one) over Zayn's head, in the process unseating his cigarette. It slips and falls to the floor. Zayn's too busy readjusting the beanie to notice.  
  
'I didn't want _you_ to be cold,' Harry says, innocently, stepping forward onto his cigarette. Zayn looks only vaguely bothered. C'mon, Harry thinks, frustrated, c'mon. Say something, would you.  
  
On impulse he reaches out and flicks Zayn's chin.  
  
'Wh--' Zayn blinks at him, quirks his eyebrow. 'Are you flirtin' with me?'  
  
Such a big ego! Harry refuses to be charmed.  
  
'Zayn?' Both of them whip their heads towards the stairwell, where Liam's stood rubbing his eyes. He's wearing some baggy trackies and an old shirt, diagrammed with the ocean ecosystem. Ah, the Marine Bio nerd in his natural environment, Harry thinks fondly.  
  
He tilts his head, narrows his eyes. Has Liam lost weight?  
  
'Babe,' says Zayn, going to him immediately. 'What's up, is everythin' okay?'  
  
Liam chuckles tiredly. 'That's wh--I was just about to ask _you_ that, you numpty,' he says. He seems to notice Harry then; he grins. 'Are you two having a party without me?'  
  
Harry says something. Neither of them hear.  
  
Zayn pulls his beanie off - his hair is sloppy, soft and ungelled. 'I was just going out for a bit of a think,' he says, half-stepping a stair up. Liam smiles faintly. 'But it's not important - let's go back to bed.'  
  
Liam frowns. 'But I'm not – Zayn, I'm not tired,' he says, laughing a little. 'I can _go_ outside--'  
  
Zayn aims his body and voice away from Harry. Pity the acoustics are so good in here, then. 'I didn't say you couldn't, babe,' says Zayn. 'It's just-- _I'm_ feeling tired, and you've had a long day...so, c'mon - let's just go back to bed.'

'You're not listening to me,' says Liam, voice rising a little, 'I said I wasn't--'  
  
'C'mon, Li,' says Harry, softly. Zayn and Liam turn to him, as though they're quite surprised he still exists. 'Zayn's too tired, just let him go back to sleep. Come out with me.'  
  
Zayn scowls at him. Well - he wasn't even trying that time.  
  
'Thanks, Haz,' says Liam, not quite grinning. 'You go on ahead, though, I'll be out soon.'  
  
Quite awake by now, Harry just stifles a sigh and goes out the back by himself, hopping over the dying roses at the door. He's not so foolish as to think that Liam will be joining him at all.  
  
Sunrise is still lovely, though, he thinks, much later. Even when you're alone. Perhaps especially then.

 

* * *

 

Their last night there, Liam and Zayn fuck so loudly Harry can hear them clear across the cottage.  
  
'Oh, f-- _Zayn_ , please--please--' Really, Zayn - _please_.  
  
Harry, meanwhile, is stuck rolling around and over the pile of extra pillows he's amassed, unable to find any position that feels less horrible than the rest of them. He finally goes to sleep around 5, well after the cottage has fallen to slumber, irritated, cold-toed and awfully keyed up.  
  
In his dream, someone kisses him so hard he falls, backfirst, into a bowl of strawberry jam.  
  
The first time he wakes up, the image of Zayn's elbow flickers across his lids - but the thought is too brief for him to grab hold of, and when he wakes up again three hours later, he doesn't remember it at all.

 

* * *

 

Not then, but later. Later he remembers it.  
  
At the funeral, he remembers it.

 


	2. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for this section can be found in the end notes. Mind the spoilers.

  
  
  
  
_These bridges are no bridge dear_  
 _they bow and_  
 _send us from one solitude_  
 _to another_  
  
  
  
  
  
Ugh! So cold.  
  
That's it, that's the last coherent thought Harry has for a while: ugh! so cold.  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
Zayn's dad worries about him, has his mum after him nearly every day. Right after it happened, she actually did call every day - once in the morning, before leaving for work, to see if he'd woken up yet; once in the afternoon, on her break, to see if he was still asleep; and once at night, with his dad audibly hovering in the background, to see if he'd done anything besides sleep all day.  
  
The truth of the matter is this: Zayn doesn't sleep very well anymore.  
  
So when someone unlocks the flat Liam left him at 3 in the morning, he's completely, utterly awake.  
  
There's nothing of much value left: most of it's in storage (or on its way to storage), the rest returned to the Paynes, donated, or sold off. The only thing there worth taking, really - is Zayn's life.  
  
His heart pounds a little bit harder the closer the footsteps get to his bedroom door.  
  
This is it, then.  
  
\--And to think he'd been considering going up to Danny's for the weekend.  
  
'Why haven't you moved the spare key?' scolds a very familiar voice, through the door. 'Are you trying to get robbed? I mean, really, Zayn.'  
  
Hm. Well. Fuck. The last time Harry spoke with him, he was headed off to Malmö.  
  
It's not especially unusual for Harry to check in with Zayn whenever he's back in town. It is, however, fairly unusual for him to do so in person: he tends to do it right before he's set to leave again, so they don't have to actually see or talk to each other.  
  
It's been...what, eight months? eight months, almost, since they've been in the same room.  
  
Harry comes through the door, stood oddly, dripping rainwater all over the floor. He looks very pale, faintly blue, even: must be cold out. His hair looks straight, almost, plastered to his forehead. 'Oof,' he says, all in one endless sigh, as he unwraps one of his interminable scarves. (Go ahead, make yourself comfortable, thinks Zayn.) 'Didn't think the rain would be this bad, ha ha.' He flicks the light on, off, on, off, lets out a mild noise when the grey darkness keeps. 'Ohh, what's wrong with the lights?'  
  
There wasn't much point in replacing them. Zayn doesn't bother trying to explain.  
  
Harry unzips his jacket slowly, pushes his watery fringe back. He keeps glancing at Zayn. It's--he's so... _loud_.  
  
 _Drip-drip-drip-drip_.  
  
Has it really been raining all this while? Zayn turns his eyes to the window, listens.  
  
Harry's whisper is a sink in the silence, left running in another room. 'Zayn?'  
  
If it's been raining this entire time, that means it's been muddy out for at least half as long. And if it's muddy out that means he'll need to find his Wellingtons if he wants to go outside. And if he has to find his Wellingtons that means he'll have to go through the boxes in the study. And if he has to go through the boxes in the study--  
  
'...When's the last time you ate something?' Harry's closer, now. '...Babe?'  
  
\--if he has to go through the boxes in the study, he really will kill himself. 'Get out,' he says, 'please.' He closes his eyes as far as they'll go. His foot is cold; he doesn't need this right now.  
  
He feels Harry perch himself on the very edge of the bed. There's some kind of miscalculation along the way, though, and he ends up slipping and sprawling down onto the floor.  
  
Zayn opens his eyes, looks down at Harry laughing to himself.  
  
'God, this _body_ ,' Harry says, stretching his legs all the way out, 'I nearly slipped on the ice outside, I forgot how long these things are!' His legs bounce up and down, left and right. He crinkles up his eyes when he looks up, kind of lets his mouth just hang open. He looks proper daft. 'No wonder Harry's always tripping all over the place.'  
  
\--Maybe he _is_ daft.  
  
Harry's smile fades; he tilts his head up at that weird angle again, stares keenly at Zayn. 'You know...you know what the worst moment of my life was?' he says, in a hush.  
  
Have they reached the soul-baring portion of the morning already? Zayn raises his eyebrows.  
  
'Watching you and my mum and my dad,' Harry swallows, 'and Harry and all of my sisters crying over me in hospital, when I died. And not being able to say a bloody thing. Just having to--watch.'  
  
...What is this?  
  
'What is this,' says Zayn, hoarsely. 'Charades? You're Liam. Well done. Get out.'  
  
Harry looks up at him, eyes wet and wide and green. 'But it is me, Zayn,' he says, in a very quiet voice. 'I am Liam.'  
  
They stare at each other.  
  
Zayn hits Harry full in the face with his pillow once, and then once more - and then his breath cuts out and he can't stop. 'Get out,' he says, and he barely recognises his own voice. 'Get out, get--'  
  
Harry's hands come up and grab his wrists; he's forced to drop his pillow. A year ago Zayn could've handled Harry easy - of course, a year ago Harry didn't have all of this fucking crackhead strength to pull from. 'Stop, Zayn, listen--' Harry shakes him until he stills. '-- _Listen_.'  
  
If he wasn't naked beneath the sheets, he'd stomp him bloody. What kind of person, what kind of friend--  
  
'Listen,' says Harry, more quietly, 'what was the last thing you said to me, before I collapsed?' He looks at him searchingly. ' _Think_ , babes. Do you remember? It was--'  
  
Well, you get the fucking paper, then.  
  
They'd been in a bit of a row--a huge row, really. After a while all their fights were the same. He's never told anyone how bad it got, especially towards the end. And he's never not been ashamed of it: if he'd just been a little more patient that day, a little more receptive, maybe--    
  
And Liam'd been wearing that fucking awful canary yellow jumper that made him look so _sick_...It's not like the jumper'd caused it or anything, it'd just been impossible to look at him that morning and not know-- this man is going to die. And so Zayn'd maybe treated him a little more carefully than usual, even though he'd _known_ Liam hated it, hated it so much he'd thrown his bowl onto the floor. The ceramic and cereal had gone everywhere; the milk speckled up the wall.  
  
And Zayn'd been up all night scrubbing vomit stains out of the carpet and he'd just lost it, he'd gotten so _angry_ : Well fuckin' easy for you to throw a tantrum when it's me who has to clean it up!  
  
Nobody asked you to! Liam'd bellowed. Nobody would ever look at you and say, hey, you know what?, that Zayn Malik, I think he'd make a smashing maid!  
  
Pretty soon it'd all come tumbling out: well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, Liam? you can barely take care of yourself, you need-- (by this time they'd been full-on screaming at each other) --I'll tell you what I don't need, Liam'd said, I don't need a fucking cane, I don't need a fucking live-in nurse, and I don't fucking need you bringing me the _fucking_ paper like I'm some sort of fucking invalid. And so Zayn had thrown up his hands and said, Fine!, well--

'--you get the fucking paper, then,' says Liam.

  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
The second time Harry sees Zayn naked, it's mostly an accident.  
  
He wakes up, gets up, and follows the sound of the singing without really thinking about it. At that point he's still mostly asleep. The bed is unfamiliar, the room cluttered with boxes - the bathroom door, unlocked.  
  
He recognises the door and doesn't know why until right before he opens it: Liam'd taken a photo in front of it, about two years ago - he'd been wearing a fuzzy white robe over a tux and holding up a loofah, wide-eyed and pursing his lips. Behind Liam, fully dressed, Zayn'd had his arms around his middle, his face buried in his neck, a washing cap tugged haphazardly over his head. The fb caption'd read: _New flat, new robe.....anyboddy fancy a washhh? :)_  
  
Zayn's lost weight, Harry thinks, dumbly, when it really is Zayn inside. Singing, tattooed; scrawny.  
  
Zayn stops singing, pulls the blue curtain back further - and smiles. 'Hey,' he says, blinking in the spray.  
  
'--Um,' Harry says, confused, 'sorry.' He yanks the door closed, leans back against it slowly, heart pounding, tries to calm down, tries to think. Did they fuck? He was so out of it, the last thing he remembers--  
  
it was cold. The cabbie even gave him his umbrella, said, you'll catch your death out there!, when Harry opened the door. Perfect place to, Harry said, because he'd been feeling clever, and invincible, and very, very high. He lost one of his gloves somewhere amongst the graves – maybe on purpose, now that he thinks on it – and so it took him a little while to wind around to Liam's grave. Lightning (lightning? why would there've been lightning?) _something_ kept flashing overhead, and the minute he saw Liam's grave, the wind picked up tremendously, tugged the cabbie's umbrella out of his gloved hand. He was soaked in minutes, shivering, teeth chattering, so cold he couldn't _think_. And then--  
  
\--and then?  
  
And then he woke up in his dead best friend's bed.  
  
How...peculiar, he thinks, broken all over in a cold sweat. He starts looking for his wallet or, or his mobile, his _clothing_ , whose clothing is he wearing? is this Liam's?--something, anything, quicker and quicker, he'll get the explanation later, he just needs to get out of here.  
  
The shower shuts off.  
  
Fuck it, even _shoes_ at this point would be good--but there's all these bloody boxes everywhere--  
  
'Harry,' says Zayn, behind him.  
  
Shit! 'Shit,' Harry gasps. He tries out a smile. 'I--you startled me.'  
  
Zayn doesn't smile back - he looks gaunt and shortened, frightful, really, stood there in Liam's frayed old robe. 'Your stuff's in the study,' he mumbles. Harry doesn't even have to move - Zayn walks all the way around him, collapses facedown in the middle of the bed.  
  
Harry stares at him far after his heart's calmed down - but Zayn doesn't move or say anything else.  
  
The study he's seen before, though it bears little resemblance to what it once looked like. Still, somewhere amongst the looming boxy towers, he finds his clothing – black jeans, black shirt, polka dot scarf, green peacoat – wrinkled-dry and clean, laid out neatly next to his boots. His wallet doesn't have any cash in it and his mobile's dead.  
  
Zayn doesn't call back when he lets himself out.  
  
It's not every day you black out for 15 hours, Harry thinks, on the tube home; probably a good idea to err on the side of no coke for a while.

 

* * *

 

At first, it feels like a joke.  
  
He opens his fridge one day to find a head of cauliflower and a 6-pack of Newcastle Brown. In the freezer, there's a pint of flinchingly sweet strawberry Gelupo; in the cupboard, two boxes of Darjeeling for every one Lady Grey. His Itunes library doubles in size virtually overnight, Luther Vandross and Jay-Z suddenly in heavy rotation on his iPod. In his drawers he finds ill-fitting jumpers and stiff stonewashed jeans - practical clothing that feels like a gift from a distant aunt.  
  
He texts Nick: _ha ha very funny how'd you get into my flat_  
  
Nick sends back: _i rmbr when u'd text me evry insignificant detail of ur day. now u don't evn bothr telling me when ur bk home, u just jump straight to the outlandish accusations! harold u have *changed*_ -crying emoji- -crying emoji-  
  
And then, five minutes later: _(change ur locks, luv. whatever it was, it wasnt me_ -see no evil monkey emoji- _)_  
  
He changes the locks. The discoveries don't stop.  
  
Nicola sends him a strange, heartfelt text thanking him for his e-mail, but maybe he wants to use spellcheck next time? ha ha xx - Harry's outbox is completely empty when he checks it.  
  
He wakes up to a hand throbbing and smothered in plaster. In a panic, he nearly goes to the A &E - but then he thinks, well, how would he explain how his knuckles got that way? He wouldn't be able to; might even get put on some kind of secret registry for his troubles. So he doesn't do anything.  
  
He finds photos on his phone - blurry pics of rainy streets; overhead shot of a sea of umbrellas; nighttime view of London across the Thames. Hospital rooms. The arm of a soft grey jumper against a bookshelf. Grassy unmarked graves. Someone's lower half, shapeless beneath heavy white sheets. An indoor pool. Stingrays gliding behind thick blue glass. A small smile he doesn't remember making, directed at something off-screen.  
  
His next door neighbour gives him a beautifully handwritten card, thanking him for helping her carry her groceries in the rain. _And all this time, I didn't even think you knew my name!_ But he doesn't; doesn't, didn't, never has.

 

* * *

 

Danielle refused to leave Russia; Liam refused to leave the couch.  
  
Harry treated him very gently, which meant he bought him as many pints of Triple Sweet Strawberry as he could stomach, and that he read to him aloud from a great many of his tedious books.  
  
A fourth of the way through _The Splendour of the Unknown: Exciting and Exotic Marine Life_ (and a third of the way through as many pints), Liam hiccuped, dropped his spoon, and sighed.  
  
Harry paused. The surprisingly violent mating habits of the angler fish weren't going to go anywhere. He waited - Liam didn't say anything.  
  
Mating habits, it was. Harry continued reading.  
  
Liam sighed again. Harry paused. Liam didn't say anything. Harry continued reading. Liam sighed again.  
  
This went on for a while. before finally Harry snapped the textbook shut on the frankly nauseating photos and said: 'Was there something you needed, Liam?'  
  
'No,' Liam said, wistfully. Then: 'I'm hungry.'  
  
Harry peered into his pint. 'You've still some left.'  
  
'I don't mean I want more ice cream.' Liam paused. 'Though...if you're offering--'  
  
'I wasn't,' Harry said quickly. He had no desire to reverse or relive the Am I Getting Fat? stage of their relationship. As it was, he was already tempting fate.  
  
'Oh.' Liam wilted. 'Well, no, I want. Like, something real.'  
  
Harry hadn't really understood. In his defence, though, it honestly hadn't seemed like Liam had, either, at the time. '...Did you want me to make you some spaghetti?' he offered.  
  
Liam perked up. 'Oh, maybe later, thanks, Haz,' he said. And then he frowned, and stared off into the abyss. 'But I didn't mean hungry for food, though. I think I meant more. Hungry...for life. You know?'  
  
Mmm, no, Harry did not know. 'You're alive right now,' he said, dubiously. 'You've...lived.'  
  
'Have I, though,' said Liam, with a very dreary look. Questions like these were why Harry steered clear of relationships, for the most part.  
  
He didn't want to say something just for the sake of saying something - that might mess Liam up even further. So he didn't respond right away, just went back to reading. Liam didn't seem to mind: he just went back to glumly eating his ice cream.  
  
The moment his spoon clattered against the bottom, Harry pulled together all the thoughts he'd had swirling around and said: 'Just because you're unhappy now, it doesn't mean...it doesn't mean everything's been meaningless.'  
  
'Hasn't it,' said Liam, like he was ready, like he'd been waiting. He was blinking a lot, not looking at Harry. 'Dani's--she said it's not even that I don't have ambition. She said I've _nothing_.'  
  
'That's bollocks,' Harry said, easily. Liam frowned. 'What does that mean, you have--'  
  
'She didn't mean material things,' Liam said hastily, right when Harry finished his sentence: '--me.'  
  
They stared at each other. Harry smiled over his dread. 'What would she know, anyhow,' he said. 'She's in bloody Denmark.'  
  
'Russia,' Liam corrected, smiling faintly. 'St Petersburg.' If he moved just the slightest bit closer, his head would be laying on Harry's arm.  
  
'Saint Coldisburg,' said Harry. (Liam snorted.) 'She's freezing her arse out there, well - that's her decision. It doesn't have anything to do with you.'  
  
'Yea,' said Liam, face gone blank. 'She said that, too.' He clenched his fists and raised up his shoulders. It looked like he was trying to crumple himself up. Harry scooted closer - the textbook sort of fumbled sideways, half in his lap, halfway into Liam's. 'I was going to marry her, you know.'  
  
'You can still get married, Li,' said Harry, very, very softly. 'Hey,' he flipped open the book randomly, 'plenty of fish in the sea!' As luck would have it, he opened up to the full-page photo of the male angler fish stabbing the female angler fish. Liam buried his face in his hands and started shaking. Oh, bugger.  
  
Harry looked at his left wrist. Of all the reasons he'd hoped Liam and Danielle wouldn't work out, he would've never thought that something so useless as _ambition_ would be the cause.  
  
'Hey,' he said. Whispered, really. 'hey. Li. What d'you think about getting a tattoo?'  
  
Liam looked up. His eyes were shiny and red. '...What?'  
  
'A tattoo.' He raised his hand up, for proper inspection. 'You want to live? Sit through one of these.'  
  
Liam rubbed at his chin with his knuckle; a little ice cream had dribbled over his lip and dried there. It was fairly disgusting. 'I'm not sure I want one,' he murmured. But he looked interested. Better than interested, he looked _distracted_.  
  
'I can draw you one, if you like,' Harry said, precisely so Liam would laughingly groan and say: 'No bloody way, Haz, your tattoos are _awful_.'  
  
Harry covered his lower chest with both hands. 'I refuse to subject the Madame to this,' he said. He leaned down and pretended to whisper to his moth tattoo: 'Don't listen to him, my love; he doesn't understand.'  
  
Liam laughed, like, out loud and everything, shook his head to the side so he actually was leaning against Harry's arm. Harry felt it, the knowledge of it, the physicality of it, sink down his throat - thin and sweet and flat, like a warm glass of cheap champagne.  
  
'Hey. Li,' he said, swallowing. 'You know I love you, right?'  
  
Liam flopped his head, moved just a little bit closer; squeezed Harry on his other side, near his hip. For a person who hadn't showered in four days, he smelled remarkably unbad. 'Yea, Haz,' he said, quieter now. 'Yea, I do.' He raised up his face, smiled ruefully. 'Don't know where I'd be without you, if I'm honest.'  
  
Harry couldn't stop looking at him. He was warm, he was soft, he felt good against Harry's side, and honest to God the only reason Harry didn't kiss him right then and there was because he hated, he hated, he _hated_ the taste of strawberry.

 

* * *

 

First it's just hours that Harry loses; then it's days.  
  
He goes to sleep in his bed and wakes up on the couch with no memory of moving. He feels tired all the time - and _sore_ , sore like he's put his body through a beef grinder.  
  
He's out to lunch with Aimee one day – at the Pho-Nomenal!, near the Gallery, where she's picked up a gig – when he happens to glance out the window. A woman with a rolled-up rainbow yoga mat walks by - and something in Harry thinks: down a street or two and she'll be at the gym.  
  
It doesn't make sense that he'd think that: Peckham's not the sort of place he'd ever visit alone or after sunset - how would he know if it'd gyms or not? He looks after the woman so long that Aimes interrupts her own story about her idiot of a co-curator and says, wow, Haz, has it really been that long?  
  
It has. Two times, he tries to go home with somebody - the first time with a lovely blonde named Cynthia, the second with a Turkish bloke named Emir - both times end with him in running gear, days later, slowing to a still in the middle of the park near his flat, hardly out of breath. He's not exercised in months.  
  
One night, in pure desperation, he blows through four lines and a litre of black coffee to keep himself awake. He goes to the bathroom as the sun is coming up, flicks off the light when he's done - and it's five days later and he's stood in his living room, telly midway through a new episode of Strictly Come Dancing.  
  
He can't leave: he boards a plane for Brussels, turns to greet his seatmate, finds himself falling out of bed. Tries to take the rail to Rochester to hide out with Kev, who always has good stuff, just to clear his head for a bit, just to control it - they go through a tunnel, he comes out on the other side of it sat on a bench outside his high-rise. He changes all his passwords and pins, takes the train to Cardiff without anything but a box lunch, comes to at Gem's, is told she doesn't mind bailing him out every so often, but she'd really thought they'd broken this habit when he went off to uni.  
  
It's a dangerous world out there, she says, only half-joking. You can never be too careful.  
  
He stares at his palms, unblinking; forces himself to sit up. It's okay: he's not alone, he's not hurt, he's alive. 'Gem,' he says, and then he clears his throat before his voice gives out on him. 'Yesterday. Mm--when we spoke...was I acting --peculiar?'  
  
Gem doesn't look up from her laptop; she's planning a charity event for seals or something. 'Um...? No peculiar-er than usual,' she murmurs. She glances up when he doesn't respond, and then rolls her chair over to him when she sees his face.  
  
'Oh, Harry,' she chides, quietly, smoothing her hand down his back. He used to have these days all the time. 'What's wrong.'  
  
'Nothing,' he says, wiping furiously at his face. 'It's nothing, I'm sorry. I'm just--I'm very tired.'

 

* * *

 

He gets a cab back to his flat. Walks through the door and collapses onto the couch.  
  
Stingrays waltzing on a strawberry pink dancefloor paint themselves on the black of his eyelids.  
  
Let it happen, he thinks, exhausted; let it be.

 

* * *

 

He dreams:  
  
                  he's going through the boxes in the study.  
  
He's searching for something very important. It's him, but it's also not him. Zayn's there, too. He looks a little better - he's gained a half-stone, at least, no longer looks as though he's attempting suicide by starvation. He's wearing his glasses again. For some reason, the other Harry really likes this.  
  
I put it down on the counter one day, Zayn is saying. He carefully unpacks a box of musty clothing. And it was gone the next.  
  
It rolled into one of these boxes, other Harry says, I know, I saw it do.  
  
Zayn looks up, looks at other Harry. Thought you said you were stuck in that cemetery?, he says.  
  
I was, says other Harry. But that first week, I c-- it was too much, I had to find you. But then I lost you again. He frowns - it doesn't look right on his face. I'm sorry you had to be alone.  
  
Zayn stares down at the pile of clothing, shuts his eyes. I felt you, he says, after a while. And then you went away...I thought I was hallucinating.  
  
Other Harry reaches for his hand - then rain blows the windows open, and Harry has to hurry and find a bucket before the waters rise.

 

* * *

 

The puzzle pieces slot into place - the picture doesn't make any sense.

 

* * *

 

Mid-afternoon next finds him frozen in front of Liam's old flat for a good 15 minutes.  
  
Everytime he raises his hand to knock, he thinks, I've a brain tumour, it's disassociative identity disorder, I'm a, a sleeper agent with extremely mundane objectives, I've rapid and reoccurring fits of amnesia. I'm going completely out of my head.  
  
Then something else in him says: _the key's under the dragon's tongue; don't make Zayn come to the door_ \- and he feels terror take reign of him again.  
  
He doesn't want to the look at the stout stone dragon to his right. It's too--  
  
What do you think of it? Liam'd asked, showing him a photo on his mobile. This was back when he and Zayn were going through the apparently joyful task of decorating.  
  
Tacky, Harry'd thought, smiling. He'd said: Ferocious! --ly welcoming. I love it.  
  
\--it's too much.  
  
Still. can't run away from all of it, he thinks, firming his shoulders. He prepares himself: he's going to knock.  
  
As with many of his recent decisions, however, this one is also taken from him: Zayn swings open the door, eyebrows raised, mobile in between his ear and shoulder, a plate of toast and eggs in his left hand. His jumper is grey, soft and worn. 'I already called the school,' he says, chewing something. He leans forward, gives Harry a kiss on the cheek, so quick all Harry has time to think is, Emir had a beard, too, before he's turned back inside the flat, leaving the door wide open.  
  
Harry comes in after him, shuts the door, watches him pace. The lights are working now and the telly's back. All but two of the boxes seem to have migrated elsewhere. Not to the study, though, Harry somehow knows. 'Yesterday, after you rang,' Zayn's saying, walking around the back of the dining room table. Set for two, Harry sees. 'No, no, they've been, like, really understanding, actually, please don't call them.' Zayn huffs out a laugh. ' _Mum_.'  
  
For lack of anything better to do, Harry finds himself sinking onto the couch. He's been here before. He'd visited before, of course, but--here. Sat in some place, thinking these thoughts: he's been here before.  
  
Well, not quite, he realises, as an image of stingrays comes to mind.  
  
He doesn't realise he's drifting until he startles awake at Zayn sitting down next to him. He doesn't kiss him again, or try to touch him, just sends him a warm smile from a safe distance. Do they fuck?, when he's not here?, Harry wonders; he feels ill.  
  
'So what's going on, babes,' says Zayn, leaning back against the arm.  
  
Harry hesitates. He'd been planning on demanding answers of Zayn the minute he opened the door. But then he'd been on the phone with his _mum_ and it would've been this whole _thing_ \- Harry hadn't wanted to be rude. Still, the moment for his grand entrance has passed, and now he's caught short, not at all sure of what to say.  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes, grinning. 'Don't make that face, you know what I mean,' he says. 'We agreed you wouldn't come round again 'till you wrote out something for Harry.'  
  
Did they? How big of them.  
  
Harry taps his fingers from knee to knee. How should he play this.   
  
'I know what we said,' he says, slowly, 'but I was. I was scared, this time.' He thinks of his dream. 'I didn't want to be alone,' he adds. Zayn says something vaguely soothing. Harry doesn't want to look at him. 'I, I woke up and I didn't know where I was. I felt--'  
  
Helpless. His throat slides closed over his heart, and he can't speak anymore.  
  
'Hey,' Zayn says, scooting closer. Harry forces himself not to flinch. 'This isn't your fault. You didn't ask for this. You can barely control it--'  
  
Control it, Harry thinks, control me, more like. He clears his throat, makes himself look up. 'But it's worth it. Don't you think?' Zayn blinks at him. 'Since I can see you again.'  
  
Why couldn't it've been _Zayn_ , he thinks, biting down on the question. Why is it him who's never allowed to--who's always forced to--  
  
'Ehhh. Well. I might've thought that, at the beginning,' Zayn says, scratching idly down his neck. Around his finger, the ring gleams. 'Now...I dunno. Seems pretty unfair.'  
  
Harry looks at him. 'Unfair,' he repeats, blankly.  
  
Zayn shrugs. 'Well, you love him too, bro,' he says. Liam'd always said he was clever. 'Maybe even more than me.'

 

* * *

 

There's no _maybe_ about it; it's Liam who loves Zayn more, is all.

 

* * *

 

You've, like, way too many tells, Zayn says, only a bit later, doing him up two eggs, some waffles, and a side of turkey bacon. (And a cuppa, because Harry asked politely.) You took, like, an hour to respond, Liam doesn't do that.  
  
He speaks without thinking, do you mean, Harry says, eyeing the nectarines.  
  
Zayn tosses him one. More like you think without speaking.

 

* * *

 

Zayn has a bollocks of a time digging out the air mattress from the closet. 'Anythin' you want me to tell him?' he grunts, tugging loose a wide box labelled GRAFF GEAR (OLD) with some effort. He almost places the box atop a small rolled up rug – from a place called Janamaz? Harry wasn't really listening – before he swings it aside quickly.  
  
'Shit,' he mutters, once his hands are free; he sets the rug up between the walls, making a distant face of annoyance. He gives it one last look before turning to Harry, picking up where he left off: 'Hm? Any messages I should pass along? Quotes? General well wishes?'  
  
Harry feels calm, and full, and good for the first time in a very long while. 'No, thanks,' he says, leaning lightly against the bookshelf. 'Someone very wise once told me that "it's just not the same, coming from someone else".'  
  
It's not funny, and he's pretty much permanently unamused, but Zayn gives him a half-smile anyway. 'I really would've told you,' he says, again, hands on his hips as he looks down at the airless mat, 'but that first time I thought I'd, like, dreamt it all up. And then Liam said he wanted to be the one to tell you, and, I dunno. Felt kind of like. Not my business.'  
  
He shrugs, like, oh, not my business, your best friend may've come back from beyond the grave out of love for me, but I couldn't have _possibly_ said anything to you about him possessing your body; wouldn't want to _impose_.  
  
For Harry's part, he's already spent quite a bit of time feeling scared and hopeless; as he sees it, there's not much point in getting angry. Or--well, there's not much point in _showing_ that he's angry. He can be mature about it. It's the 21st century - Pix had her Wiccan phase, Mum and Dad have their swinger thing, alright, well he has this. The mortal vessel as a timeshare. Whatever.  
  
'Still. A tiny note saying you're not eye-ehn-ess-eyh-eyh-eyh-ehn-eeh would've done wonders,' he murmurs.  
  
Zayn glances up from hooking up the mat to the inflater, gives him a crooked frown-smile. Harry wants to put him through the study window a tiny bit less - though most of that comes from the fact that he's not all that certain that Zayn wouldn't come back and possess him, too. He wouldn't even be malevolent about it, probably, just kind of half-hearted. _Sorry about this, bro; I was gonna say somethin', but. Y'know._  
  
Once the mattress is filled and set up, Zayn honest to God tucks him in. It's barely after 6. 'How're you feelin'?' he asks.  
  
Like he might go to sleep and never wake up. Harry settles on: 'alright.'  
  
Zayn nods in a vaguely pedantic manner. 'Try to pay attention to how it feels this time,' he says. 'And I'll tell you how long it's been when you come back.' He pats the covers twice, more restless than comforting. 'Alright?'  
  
Harry shrugs. 'Alright,' he repeats.  
  
The last thing he sees before he lets go is Zayn's face looking down at him, watchful and waiting.  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
'...Liam?'  
  
Liam cracks open one eye, then the other - then grins sweetly when he sees Zayn. His smile fades when he glances about them. 'When did I--?'  
  
'Harry came here pretending to be you,' says Zayn, before he gets distracted. 'Because you apparently never told him anything.' Liam makes a hunted, guilty expression. 'He looked horrible, babe. I think his hair is falling out, a bit.'  
  
'Er,' Liam says, sitting up. He pats the front of his head – Harry's head – self-consciously. 'No, I think that's just him.'  
  
'Liam,' Zayn says. 'C'mon, babe. Whyn't you, I don't know, write a note, or leave him a voicemail, or-- _something_. Anything that we discussed.'  
  
'Well. I mean. I did leave him the photos,' Liam says, a little pettish. 'I always used to take photos for him, I don't know who else he would think was leaving them.' Right - of course the rational conclusion would be to assume that a dead person had.  
  
Zayn thinks of Harry slouching in their doorway, pale and unhappy and unwashed. He should've known it was him immediately, he thinks; Liam's always stood up straight.  
  
'Babes,' he says, not breaking his gaze, ' _you_ know how it feels to lose control.'  
  
Harry's face goes pale all over again; Liam grimaces. Zayn hates it when Liam makes that face - it's out of place on someone else's features, first of all, and it makes him feel sick and sad besides.  ''s a low blow, Zayn,' he murmurs.  
  
Zayn shrugs. 'Can't really be anything else, though, can it.' It's easy to keep the memory fresh, looking at Harry, the bags under his eyes, the way his fingers twitch every so often. He hadn't really let himself think about what it must've been like, on the other side; it'd seemed easier not to. But seeing Harry in front of him – real Harry, not just the mildly irritating prick from his memories – had made it suddenly impossible to ignore the backthroat guilt and half-formed worries of the past six weeks.  
  
If Liam says whatever, then whatever – but he has to try. At least once.  
  
Liam's turned and is glaring out the window. 'Liam,' says Zayn, reaching out for his hands. Liam doesn't pull them away. Well, there's that, at least. 'You don't--just 'cus this is, like, dead fuckin' unfair? That doesn't mean you get to take it out on Harry. Like. Did you even look at him? You could see it. Or more than I could, at least. Were you just, like-- biding your time?' Liam doesn't respond. 'I mean, you always talk about, like, oh, I miss him so much, I love him so much--'  
  
'I do,' Liam snaps. 'I do love him. He's--you already know, okay? He was the only other--' He shakes Harry's head. 'I just do. Okay? Don't question that.'  
  
The use of the imperative chafes. As always. But they're having a difficult discussion, so Zayn will allow it to pass unmarked. Just this once, he thinks; just like he always does.  
  
He dips his head to the side. 'Alright. Well. You've gotta act like it, then. Harry's your best friend, yea, but babe, I love _you_. And if I had to trade him for you, I'm sorry, but I'd pick you in a heartbeat.' Harry's face still doesn't hold Liam's emotions well: he just looks like he's in pain. 'I wouldn't be happy about it, and I wouldn't be proud over it, but that's just fuckin' truth. So you've gotta be the person to have his best interests at heart. 'Cus I can't. And this entire thing is so fucked-- you can't be hanging back when he's running 'round looking like he's gonna kill himself--'  
  
'I wasn't _hanging back_ , I wouldn't have-- there's no way I would've let him,' Liam says. He pauses, and Zayn feels a shiver go up his arms. 'But if it came down to it - you know I would choose you, too.'  
  
'Nah, babe, you don't mean that,' Zayn says, shaking his head, pulling his hands free. 'You don't mean that.'  
  
'What, so you get to say it, but I don't? I've already chosen you,' says Liam. He looks up at Zayn, _exasperated_ , almost. God. Like it's not completely different. A theoretical godpower of Zayn's versus Liam's actual ability to possess people. Or. one person in particular. Liam says it doesn't work on other people.  
  
Why give him back like this?, Zayn thinks. Why even take him away?  
  
His wrist feels cool and clammy where Liam's palms wrap around it. 'And babe, be fair,' says Liam, 'he's already got a death wish. And it's got nothing to do with me or, or with what I'm doing or not doing.'  
  
Zayn just shakes his head again. It's got everything to do with him. 'Course it does; all of it does.  
  
Liam doesn't understand what he's disagreeing with, though, jumps to prove the wrong point: 'You don't know what he does to his body, Zayn - you were right about the coke, you know? But it's not just that, I found needles in the bathroom, too. And, and in his contacts--do you know he's a mate called Heroin Horan? and--'  
  
Zayn takes in a slow breath, thinks about his own spotty past with drugs. He gently pulls his hand out of Liam's grasp. 'Look, if Harry wants to take heroin--'  
  
'--oh, _this_ again. That whole "he can do as he likes" bit, is that where we're going now?' The withering scorn sits well on Harry's face, at least. 'Well, what about me, why can't I do as I like? I did everything right the first time, didn't I? And it got me nowhere. So, alright.' He raises his hands jerkily, palm-up, plops them back down on top of the covers. 'This is my do-over.'  
  
Zayn fights every instinct in his body, slides forward, takes that strange face into his hands. 'Harry is not your do-over, babe,' he says, as calmly as he can. Liam's trembling – from anger or fear or what, Zayn doesn't know. 'Harry is your friend. And he's scared. He loves you and he misses you but, like. babe. he's _scared_.'  
  
Zayn had been scared, too. That first time, he'd just laid in bed for hours, staring at Liam. I'm sorry, he said, again and again, while Liam whispered that it was okay, until finally they stopped, until finally there were no words left.  
  
'I was scared, too,' Liam whispers, hands coming up to grip at his ribs. It hurts. 'You don't think I was scared, at the end? But he wasn't there.' He burrows his face into Zayn's neck, like he's trying to push his way inside. 'But you were, Zayn. You were always there.'  
  
You didn't want me there half the time, Zayn doesn't say. And Harry wasn't there because he didn't know - because you wouldn't _tell_ anyone but me.  
  
'I heard you, you know,' Liam murmurs. Zayn freezes (did he read his mind?) before he remembers - sometimes Liam can pick up on a little of what happens, when Harry's awake. 'You said... _you didn't ask for this_.'  
  
He tilts back his head, eyes large and kind and strange. 'But I did, babe. I asked for you.'

 

* * *

 

They met, by chance, outside one of many tattoo parlours in Woolwich. Sting In Ink, off of Herbert. If Zayn hadn't rescheduled his appointment, they wouldn't have met at all.  
  
Liam was hovering in front of the door, looking vaguely ill and out of place. When Zayn first saw him, he really hadn't had any intention of fucking him - he and Louis'd just imploded spectacularly, and anyway Liam was a little bit chubbier back then. His hair had been longer, too; he'd looked sort of young.  
  
'Goin' in, mate?' said Zayn, behind him. Liam jumped, whirled around. Cute, Zayn thought.  
  
Straight?, he wondered, when Liam blushed all over at the sight of him. He figured it was the heat.  
  
'I, um, ha, I dunno yet,' he said. He was sweating a little. Thanks to Lou's bloody awful ringtone, Zayn'd had the chorus of "Summer Lovin'" stuck on repeat in his head, all day long. He almost hummed it aloud.  
  
'Does your mum know you're here?' Zayn asked, joking a little, but also keeping his body language careful, non-threatening - just in case.  
  
Liam stared at him blankly. '...I'm old enough to get a tattoo,' he said, rounding out all his syllables, as though Zayn were very stupid.  
  
Zayn shrugged. 'Alright.' Either way: didn't matter to him.  
  
When he came out three hours later, Liam – he still hadn't known his name – was stood kicking at the side of the building, hidden, near the alleyway. He looked up from his mobile at the sound of Zayn coming out, widening his eyes when he saw his arm, wrapped up, clear. He whistled.  
  
It'd taken Zayn ten months of Tesco money to get the final details on his shoulder. A roaring dragon, in black and white. Well. Black and brown, really. The shoulder and upper arm were good places, safe places - easy to hide.  
  
'Mate, that's brilliant,' said Liam. 'Do you've any others?'  
  
'Yea,' Zayn said, shrugging. He'd felt really calm, bowled over by the pain - that was maybe the only reason he lingered. He didn't have "Summer Lovin'" stuck in his head anymore. 'But like. in other places.' He didn't mean it as a come-on. Sprinkled across his back, on his right elbow, the insides of his knees, between his shoulder and collarbone, just above his left heel; discreet.  
  
'I want to see,' said Liam. He came closer - he wasn't blushing anymore. 'I want to s--can you show me? Please? I want to see.'  
  
Zayn took him back to his place.  
  
Have you ever done this before? he asked.  
  
Liam said, no, not in a while. He'd thought Zayn meant sex in general, but Zayn had actually meant sex with a man. Zayn took his time anyway, sort of fingered him experimentally until he was hard, gave him a handjob.  
  
Liam accidentally rested his hand on Zayn's right shoulder; Zayn flinched away. Sorry, god, sorry, sorry, Liam whispered, and then he kissed down Zayn's front and took him into his mouth. He wasn't very good - had no sense of pacing, and he didn't seem to really know what to do with his hands. Zayn didn't mind; he could sort of tell he was new at it.  
  
That's so good, he said, when Liam almost choked, leaned back for a huge breath, gave him a little grin and then went right back to it. You're so good, babe.  
  
At the time he didn't know Liam was anyone he'd be interested in seeing again, so he didn't bother being ashamed of his little hovel. Anyway he'd lived in a lot of different places growing up. Shame was for other people; you made do. Meanwhile his QTS certificate hung crooked on the wall, gathering dust. None of the schools who'd earlier seemed so interested were willing to try it out on him.  
  
'We've had a last minute replacement,' said the first school he spoke with, and that was fine.  
  
'The position has already been filled,' said the fourth, and they brought out a full tea service and everything for him; but by then it wasn't really fine.  
  
Online and in person - the positions just kept filling up. His dad said Mum's school had a small opening, if he wanted to be a teacher's assistant for a little while?, build up some more experience? stay at home in the meantime? But he couldn't go home. It wasn't--he missed them, of course, all the time he missed them.  
  
His days were pretty much all the same now that Louis'd left: he woke up, prayed, went to his first part-time job, went to his third part-time job, came home, ate shit food, browsed Facebook, ignored messages from nosy cousins, prayed, applied for more teaching positions, watched shit telly, prayed, went to bed, woke up, prayed, went to his second part-time job, came home and slept fitfully until it was time to get up again.  
  
The loneliness was suffocating, sometimes. But he couldn't go home - it had to be a last resort. Otherwise he'd really have no other options. His phuppo kept saying he was wasting his 'potential' by hiding out here, but what would she know about Zayn's 'potential'? What did any of them know, really?  
  
Maybe the big joke was that he'd been fooling them all; maybe this was where he belonged after all.  
  
'I like your place,' Liam'd said – by then Zayn knew his name was Liam.  
  
Zayn thought about not responding – he had seen Liam's watch, after all – but in the end, his home training won out; he was only slightly sarcastic when he said: 'Thanks, man.'  
  
Shame was one thing - he could objectively tell his place was a piece of shit.  
  
No matter how often he scrubbed, scraped and cleaned, a permanent tinge of filth lingered everywhere but on the bed. All of the taps leaked; there were thin, oily-like stains spreading from the bottom-up on most of the walls; and you could always hear some kind of scurrying above your head.  
  
It was disgusting. When Danny came out for a match, Zayn actually pretended to be sick so he wouldn't have to show him where he lived.  
  
If it was Zayn's own--if it was Zayn's own, he would put up new walls, yank up the floorboards, paint the place over. Pull out all the rot and start anew. The view from the fire escape was nice - he'd have some wide windows put in so he could glance out at night, look at the city lights. Maybe put in a desk that connected to the wall, too, so he wouldn't have to do all his typing in bed.  
  
He started thinking about all of this while Liam was fussing with the flannel next to him – they'd made do on the fold-out couch – so maybe he had been ashamed, a little, even back then.  
  
Liam's grumbling stomach took him out of his trance. 'Uh, a-are you hungry?' asked Liam, blushing a little. He'd been embarrassed – I haven't worked out in ages, he'd said, crumpling his shirt to the front of his chest. Zayn had just kissed him and said, If you don't want to-- but you look fine, babe, c'mon. 'We could get something...?'  
  
'I could eat,' said Zayn, shrugging, bone-gnawingly hungry. The day before, he'd eaten his daily ramen by holding his breath, hoping to numb the taste. But the smell still lingered, moist, in the walls; he'd retched up his brunch in pretty short order.  
  
At the time he'd thought Liam was offering, like, McDonald's or something. Instead, Liam hailed a cab that took them all the way to The Cinnamon Room.  
  
Zayn might not've accepted, if he'd known.

 

* * *

 

Liam is these days...different.  
  
He's more impulsive - goes out and buys a collar before Zayn ever agrees to get a dog. He leaves in the middle of the night without saying anything, comes back smelling of antiseptic, dirt, dead things. Sometimes he tilts his head like he's listening to someone talk; he just laughs when Zayn asks him what he's doing. He deletes Rebecca and Louis's numbers out of Zayn's contacts and refuses to apologise. He gets cold easy; is always throwing a hoodie or two on, or pulling Zayn in for a cuddle. He's even more clingy - always rolling over to Zayn's side of the bed and grabbing him in his sleep. He snores. He snores _horribly_. He's actually very bothered that Zayn won't sleep naked anymore. ('Why would it be weird?' he asks, without a trace of irony.)  
  
He's quieter. Sadder. Stays in the tub for hours; doesn't tango, waltz or two-step 'round the flat; pins up ancient photos of him and Harry, teething, drinking, graduating. Says he wants to remember what he looks like. He loses his temper all the time.  
  
And he's always making a fuss.  
  
'No,' he says, when Zayn slides the sheet of rules he and Harry came up with towards him. His eyes run through them quick, and then he passes them back across the counter. 'Absolutely not. _Two days for Harry for every one for Liam_? So I spend a week with you and he gets two? I won't be away from you for that long, Zayn. I just won't.'  
  
Zayn wordlessly goes to put the kettle on. Liam re-reads the list reluctantly when he's had his second mug of Darjeeling. 'No sex?' he repeats dubiously. He flicks his eyes up to Zayn. 'Ever?'  
   
Zayn stirs his own mug without clinking the sides. 'No cockblocking, either.'  
  
'It just feels like I'm cheating on you,' Liam grumbles.  
  
'You're not,' Zayn says, and he leans over and gives him a kiss, eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

'Do I really have to keep a journal?' Liam says, later, after they come back from the bookstore. They're watching the telly, flipping between ice skating and some kind of bake-off. In his head, Zayn sketches out images of a superhero who bakes by night, ice skates by day, and...saves the world every time else. The costume could use some work, to be honest. 'I'm rubbish at that kind of stuff.'  
  
Liam's taken a shower and a bath and changed into some of his old clothes. This means that if Zayn just squeezes his left eye shut a little--  
  
'Can't you do it, instead?' Liam asks, in Harry's voice. Zayn's being stupid: the feel of Harry's body's all wrong. Anyway he smells different, too. 'You love writing. Don't you? Still?' He jostles Zayn a little.  
  
Zayn's not having this conversation again. 'I can write some of it,' he concedes, 'when you're here. But I won't always be.'  
  
Liam's fingers dig into his hip, just shy of too sharp. There's another thing that's changed. 'What do you mean,' he says.  
  
Zayn doesn't react or try to move. Sorry, Liam said once, when they were still getting used to it; the shops didn't open until 9 so they'd a hole in their dining room wall for about five hours. Guess I spook easy.  
  
'Well, I mean, I might be at work, or I dunno. elsewhere,' he says, and, before Liam can overtalk him, 'plus, it's supposed to be, like, correspondence between you and Harry.' He curls up closer when Liam's grip eases. 'Private, you know?'  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
Zayn's sat by the edge of the air mattress, watching him, when he wakes up. Harry holds up his hand in a straight wave; Zayn returns the gesture, then passes him a thick blue book. The pages are edged in silver.  
  
'Ooh, fancy,' Harry rasps. His head feels heavy; Liam must've been crying again. 'Is this the--?'  
  
Zayn nods, a little distracted. He makes brief eye contact with Patek Philippe. 'So it's been about 17 hours,' he says, looking back up. 'How'd it feel?'  
  
Harry mulls it over. 'Like. like a really heavy nap,' he decides. 'Sometimes I could hear voices, like people in another room? But mostly it was like I'd pulled a blanket over my head.' Frankly suffocating - but he doesn't say that. Not like Zayn could – or would – do anything about it. Best to keep what he can to himself.  
  
He flips to the next page. 'You really like adjectives, huh.' Three whole paragraphs dedicated to whether or not they should buy new Christmas lights. Amazing.  
  
Zayn shrugs. 'He wanted me to write somethin'. His stuff should be on the next page.' He gets to his feet. 'What d'ya want for lunch?'  
  
'Mm, whatever's good,' says Harry, without looking up. He flips to the next page.  
  
'Oh, you're making tuna?' he says, a little later, after his shower. 'Hm.'  
  
Zayn stops slicing the tomatoes. 'Bro. Don't do this. You said "whatever".' Harry actually said whatever's _good_ , which rather definitively excludes tuna, but alright.  
  
'Next time I'll say "not tuna", then,' he says, rummaging through the fridge. _Next time_. 'Anyway. Liam doesn't want you to go back to work, and he wants me to convince you not to.' Tall order, considering Harry doesn't care.  
  
'Huh,' says Zayn. 'Did you, like, hear him think that, when you were asleep?' He bags half of the second tomato, nudges Harry aside to place it in the cooler, next to the cauliflower. Harry barely even flinches. 'That's kind of cool. I guess.'  
  
'That would be kind of cool,' Harry agrees, eyeing some shiitake mushrooms. They don't look too bad - perhaps a stir-fry? 'But no, he wrote it in the journal. _I dont want Zayn to go back to workkkk. Pls cunvince him for me_.'  
  
Two sentences. Over 23 years of acquaintance between them, more than a decade of friendship, almost a year of being separated by death, several weeks of overstaying his welcome - and Liam still only manages to write him two sentences. About someone else, even. What a joke.  
  
'Well. I'm goin' back to work. So,' says Zayn, and he takes the mushrooms from Harry and tosses them in the bin.

 

* * *

 

Zayn's still making his way through his second tuna sandwich when Harry heads out. They compromised: Zayn made him a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and Harry stopped going through his kitchen. There wasn't any peanut butter left, though, and Zayn'd already used up the last of the bread, so Harry just ate three bananas and a handful of peanuts. Truly extravagant, the way the other half lives.  
  
Harry pauses just before he opens the front door. 'Should I write in the journal, do you think,' he asks, turning. 'Like. Write out what I'm doing, too?' He wants, for some reason, Zayn to look at him.  
  
Zayn looks at him, shrugs. 'Do whatcha want,' he says, chewing neatly. 'It's not f'me to read, it's not f'me to say.'  
  
'Right,' says Harry, hesitating. He has two glorious days of freedom ahead of him. What is he waiting for?  
  
'See you in two days,' says Zayn, waving.  
  
Harry waves back. 'See you in two days.'

 

* * *

 

He fucks Nick because he knows Liam's never liked him him, eats him out for hours – 'it was _23 minutes_ , Harold, please,' Nick says, still short of breath, already texting the pertinent details to Pixie – alright, well. kisses him for hours, at least.  
  
'Not that I object at all to these sudden and passionate displays of affection,' Nick says, lips red and rubbed and raw, 'but I really have to ask if anything in particular caused it. Just so I might plan a bit better for it, next time.' Harry just smiles and kisses him again. They almost ran out of condoms, but that's because Nick only had three on-hand.  
  
It's been a while, he said, when Harry stretched him open.  
  
For me, too, Harry replied.

 

* * *

 

He fucks a lot of people after that.

 

* * *

_Drank a bit, saw some friends, had a good time, etc_ , he writes. _Really hate that you never tell me anything, Li_.  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
'I thought it would make you happy?' says Zayn, staring blankly at the big green bowl. Tuna, again. He started making it without even thinking about it. Liam smiled when he saw - they'd been having a nice, chill couple of days. And now they're having this bloody row. 'That's it, babe. I saw the ad online and I thought it would make you happy. Really--gets no more complicated than that, I promise.'  
  
Harry's hair is still wet from the pool; Zayn hasn't towel dried it yet. Liam always forgets to.  
  
'You thought that I would want to be in a tiny little dance studio by myself for five nights a week,' Liam bites out, like it's the worst fucking thing in the world. 'Right. Okay.'  
  
'It's not--you wouldn't have to go five nights a week,' says Zayn. He sprinkles in some cayenne, because Liam's pissing him off. 'It's whenever you would want to go.'  
  
'Right, well, I don't want to go,' says Liam. 'And you won't be making me.'  
  
That's a pretty funny thing to say, especially given that Zayn's the only person in the room _without_ the ability to inhabit other peoples' bodies. But alright. He adds in more cayenne. 'I never said anything about making you,' he says. 'It was just a suggestion. I know you like to dance, I thought it'd be a nice way for you to. Y'know.' He shrugs. _Get out of the flat. Spend some time with people who aren't me._  
  
'Nice way to what, Zayn? Push me out?' Christ. Liam's too fucking paranoid.  
  
'Nah, babe - I thought it would be a nice thing for you to do that wasn't breaking into people's hospital rooms or hanging out in cemeteries.' He regrets saying it the minute Liam flinches. Now there's no way he'll do it.  
  
'--Better that than you, though,' says Liam. In him, anger usually flushed up his chest, his neck; in Harry, it starts at his ears. 'You're too scared to even go anywhere, you just hide in the kitchen unless I'm here to convince you to go out.'  
  
Just--not today, Zayn said, what now felt like forever ago, during the bed days. Is that okay?  
  
Liam kissed the back of his neck and said, 'course it is, babe, whenever you're ready.  
  
'Yea, that is pretty stupid,' agrees Zayn. By now the entire top layer of tuna is covered in red. 'If I was gonna be fuckin' scared of something, makes much more sense for it to be of you.'

 

* * *

 

'This is good,' Liam rasps, later. As Harry, his tolerance for spicy food has increased. He still doesn't like it much, though, except in a curry.  
  
'Yea?' says Zayn, nibbling at his own sandwich. It's unenjoyably spicy; you can't even taste the tuna. He nudges Harry's thigh with his foot. 'Not too hot?'  
  
'No, no,' says Liam, voice breaking. Harry's face is red; he's crying. 'No, it's perfect.'  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
 _Wut dont I tell you?_

* * *

'See you in six days,' says Zayn, with a wave. He was finishing up a phone interview and a load of laundry when Harry woke up; the flat still smells like very well-done pancakes.  
  
Harry waves back. 'See you in six days.'

 

* * *

 

'So you and Liam's old, _hhum_ ,' Pix coughs. 'Are you and he--?' On the screen, a trembling Colin Farrell finally manages to pull the trigger.  
  
Harry tosses his head back and laughs. Someone throws popcorn at him; he finds a kernel in Pixie's shower, later, when he's rinsing his hair.

 

* * *

 

Zayn adds him on Facebook again. Harry hadn't noticed they weren't still friends.

 

* * *

 

At the behest of his mum -- who's been a bit worried over him ever since Gem reported his peculiar-er behaviour -- he goes to visit Uncle Geoff. Uncle Geoff's the kind of wealthy person who insists on maintaining his delusions of salt-of-the-earth-eur. Often at the expense of others.  
  
He greets Harry at the door with a: 'Character is so often _lacking_ in our youth these days, don't you find?' --which means that Harry gets to spend the next three hours building up his own, carrying dusty crates of priceless antiques into the new shop.  
  
Uncle Geoff's always opening some vanity store or other and then passing it off, disinterested, to a second or third cousin after his Midas touch reaps a filthy profit. ' _Antiques_ are where the market's at,' he says today, pouring tea from his thermos. He prefers his Typhoo unsweetened, which was possibly the one and only real source of contention between him and Liam. Well. That, and bringing home an unannounced Asian boyfriend three Christmases ago, probably.  
  
Uncle Geoff sees him looking. 'Did you want some tea, Harry?' he asks, very sternly, the way one might do during a character assessment.  
  
'Oh, no,' pants Harry, less out of breath than he might've been last year, 'couldn't possibly.' Would destroy all his hard-earned character in one sweeping blow, probably.  
  
'Don't think I'll be letting you slip out of my sight, now,' Uncle Geoff says, almost joyfully - and then he pauses, and the smile slides right off his face.  
  
Harry knows what he's thinking about, because he's thinking about the same: the summer they all went camping. Like, no room service, no air con, actual, real outdoors camping. Ruth claimed heat exhaustion by the time set-up rolled around, and Gem hurried to do the same. Nicola was hunched over and sulky – plagued by a very mysterious monthly illness – hanging off of Aunt Karen, so she was out, too.  
  
Uncle Geoff shot Harry and Liam very serious looks. 'Alright, then, boys, we've a big job ahead of us,' he said. 'It will require hard work, discipline--'  
  
This was the point at which Harry ran and hid behind his mum's back.  
  
'Oh, wh--Harry!' she said, laughing. 'Go listen to your Uncle Geoff!'  
  
'But I'm feeling _poorly_ , Mummy,' he said, squeezing her middle. She'd been sat in the shade; she felt good. He pushed out his bottom lip a little when he looked up at her. 'Why isn't Dad helping?'  
  
In the end they packed it all up and went to a hotel - but long before that, Liam went to and fro, at his father and faux uncle's orders, setting this pole right, holding that nail there. Often he sent Harry – lounging smugly in the shade – mournful, hangdog looks. Harry would've felt guilty, but this was back when he still hated Liam, so instead he just beamed whenever he saw him looking.  
  
Uncle Geoff caught him once. 'There's no use looking like that, Liam,' he scolded, piling several more poles into his arms. (The tent at this point was beginning to boast angles theretofore only seen within mirror fun houses.) 'We're almost done, now, come on.' Liam went red and miserable, tossed the poles to the ground, and raced off. 'Liam! _Li_ \--!' Uncle Geoff called after him. 'Don't think you'll be slipping out of my sight, now! The camp grounds aren't that large!'  
  
This was, of course, when Aunt Karen stepped in and suggested a hotel.  
  
Currently - Uncle Geoff looks very blank. He looks down at his cup, as though it's asked him a difficult question. Harry takes in the new silver at his temples, the speckled white at the back. Mum always said Uncle Geoff looked young for his age; Aunt Karen, he knows, went grey overnight.  
  
For everyone else, the distance isn't a matter of pages; the intimacy isn't even secondhand. For everyone else, Liam will exist forever past the reach of anger and censure. Liam is nowhere.  
  
'--in a better place,' Father Anton had said, during the eulogy, probably for the millionth meaningless time that month. Well, heaven's as good as nowhere, really, and anyway, Liam's obviously not there. Will never be anywhere.  
  
For as long as they all live, actually, Liam will be nowhere; will always be reachless.  
  
'--Think I will take that tea, actually,' says Harry.

 

* * *

_Don't contact them again_. That's another one of the rules.

 

* * *

 

In the shower, on his thumb, Harry finds a blister. He goes to bed thinking of Liam, dreaming of him, missing him; and is surprised when he wakes up as himself.

 

* * *

 

'Only few more hours, I, er, in town,' says Harry, in a language which may or may not be Papiamentu. 'Please show me sights?' The really important thing, he thinks, biting his lip, is the body language.  
  
The twins shoot each other huge, toothy grins. 'It would be our pleasure,' says the boy, in English.

 

* * *

 

_Went to the cinema with Pix, visited ~~Curasao~~ Curaçao. Stopped by Uncle Geoff's new shop. (It's antiques this time, Li. He's doing a lot better.) Drank a bit, made a few new friends, had a good time etc. Jet lag's killer._   
  
_You've never told me you loved me back, for one._

 

* * *

 

'It's been 32 hours - what do you want for breakfast?' Zayn asks, yawning. He transcribed a riveting monologue about the evolutionary differences between the tuna and manefish. It spanned four pages; Harry would be tired, too.  
  
'Not tuna,' he says. Zayn reheats some Chinese takeaway.

 

* * *

_I luv you backkkk :(_

  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
'You're not going back to work,' says Liam, after three mugs of tea.  
  
Zayn doesn't look up from the paper. 'It's weird, babe,' he says, 'you say that like it's your decision.'  
  
'Look, you're staying here for free,' says Liam, in his Be Reasonable voice, 'I'm the one paying for everything--'  
  
Technically, it's _Zayn_ who's the one paying for everything, seeing as it was _Liam_ who fucked off and left him the tidy living wage; the access to eight fucking accounts; the selling rights to five wineries, two aquariums, and a small estuary; the several thousand pages' worth of stock options; the deeds to a hundred or so Spanish coastal properties; and the flat in which they are currently arguing.  
  
But. it's true what they say about semantics - they don't get you very far at all.  
  
'I had remembered that, actually,' Zayn says, erasing a misplaced 8. He always feels like Sudoku ought to be more relaxing than it is. 'But thank you for throwing it in my face.'  
  
'I'm not thr--I didn't say that so you'd feel _beholden_ to me,' says Liam, quickly.  
  
'Didn't you?' says Zayn. He fills out a row with a 3, pauses when he realises he's doubled up somewhere. '“I've given you so much...you've to do what I say”? S'that the size of it?'  
  
' _No_ , that's not the size of it.' Liam comes over to the table, drops to his knees beside the chair. Harry needs a haircut, Zayn thinks, and pushes his hair back with his left hand. Tugs on it a bit when Liam shudders, nuzzles closer into Zayn's lap.  
  
'I just don't want you to go,' he murmurs, dragging his cheek up and down Zayn's thigh. 'I love you, Zayn. So much. So, so much.'  
  
Zayn knows Harry's--friendly; has probably fucked more people in the past year than he could in several lifetimes. For Liam, though, it's been...more than a year.  
  
It's been a while for Zayn, too.  
  
Liam looks up: Harry's eyes are lidded, blown wide. 'Babe,' he says. 'Can you--?'  
  
 _No sex_. The first rule. Zayn had been already halfway through writing it when Harry suggested it. Harry'd made some dumb joke, then, like, oh, good thing we're on the _same page_ here. Zayn had laughed because they were both so fucked. Just. So, so fucked.

\--He'd tried to pull Zayn when they first met, actually. Harry, that is. Liam'd introduced them under the bullshit banner of 'just friends' he'd been waving pretty much up until they moved in together. Harry had been pretty keen back then, so the idea couldn't have always been that--  
  
He needs to stop thinking about it. A no's a no.  
  
'There's some papers on the counter you should sign,' says Zayn, clearing his throat. He kisses Harry--Liam-- _Harry_ on his forehead, stands to his feet. 'From the bank. I know Harry doesn't care but you shouldn't have to, like. dip into his accounts all the time.'  
  
' _Zayn_ ,' Liam says, shakily, still on the floor. Zayn can't look at him.  
  
'And after that you should probably go,' he says. 'Because I don't want to talk to you anymore.'  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
For the first time, Harry wakes up in the study alone. He glances out the window – it's snowing – as if, perhaps, Zayn will be waiting there for him. He's not, obviously; Harry can hear him moving about in the kitchen.  
  
Harry rolls onto his back and tries not to squirm. He feels...strange. Kind of sad...but also kind of--restless. Like. Really restless. It almost feels like-- But no. Probably all it is is Liam going through one of his guilt trips again.  
  
Don't feel guilty, Li, just get out of my body, Harry thinks, in a very mature, 21st-century kind of way. He flips open the journal.  
  
On the one hundred and thirty sixth page, Liam hasn't written any words. Zayn's written three: _Had a row_.  
  
About what? Harry wonders, before he remembers that he doesn't care. He sits up, stares at the snow. Has it been two days already? Liam's of late been pretty good about keeping his days down to two.  
  
It doesn't feel like it's been two days.  
  
Maybe they rowed about The Dog, Harry thinks, reaching up for the collar Liam bought. It's stashed along one of the shelves, beside that photo of Safaa showing off her braces. The Dog may not be a real dog, but that doesn't mean that Zayn has not talked about The Dog for almost 30 pages. Zayn loves the _idea_ of a dog, but he doesn't actually want The Dog.  
  
 _Dogs get lonely if you don't love them well_ , he wrote once, at which point Harry wondered if Liam ever bothered to actually read Zayn's entries - as his very next was filled with yet another interminable conversation about the pros and cons of buying The Dog.  
  
The collar's thick, black, wide. Liam wants a big dog, Zayn said, in about eighty-five different ways, over the course of fourteen pages. It fits pretty easy around Harry's neck; his hands fumble a bit with the clasp, and he almost falls off the front of the mattress somehow - but he makes it work.  
  
'How do I look?' he asks Safaa. She continues to grimace.  
  
'Like an idiot,' says Zayn, from the doorway of the study.  
  
\--Oh, thinks Harry, in realisation. So that's what Liam was on about.  
  
'Come take it off, then,' he says, before he really thinks it through. Zayn stares at him.  
  
Harry grins. 'Kidding, Zayn. I was kidding.'  
  
Zayn comes over to him anyway. He lowers himself down, one leg up on the mattress beside Harry, one leg resting on the carpet in front of him. He doesn't look at Harry, not in the eyes, at least - he stares at his neck, regard like a physical touch, fingers warm and wide at his throat as he fiddles with the clasp. He tugs it tight for a second – Harry doesn't make a single sound – and then the straps go loose in his hand.  
  
'There we go,' says Zayn, all throat. He finally looks him in the face. Harry wouldn't be embarrassed, except he already knows that Zayn knows all his tells. And thanks to bloody fucking Liam, Zayn _knows_ that he knows.  
  
Zayn stands up abruptly, almost reaching out to ruffle Harry's hair before he yanks his head back. Harry scoots back from the edge of the mattress, a little desperately.  
  
Zayn pushes up his glasses and looks lost. 'I'm. I'm makin' you a curry,' he says, finally, apparently determined to act normally, like he wasn't this close to rolling Harry over and fucking him. Like Harry wasn't this close to letting him, _buggeringfuckeringfuck_. 'Come out whenever you're ready.'  
  
Harry flops back against the pillow when Zayn leaves, trying not to think about anything - the humiliation will only make his erection worse.  
  
He honestly didn't think this whole possession gig could get any worse; leave it to Liam to take it to new and exciting heights.

 

* * *

 

So how'd you meet, Harry asked, leaning in close. The music was loud; Zayn seemed out of place. The glasses were fine, that whole look was coming back, but the thick grey sweater seemed more librarian than anything else. If Harry'd worn something like that to a club, he might be hid in a booth, too.  
  
Somewhere at the bar, Liam was matching Maz and Andy shot for shot. Zayn'd spent almost the entire evening watching them; Harry figured he might be feeling shy.  
  
What? Zayn asked, screwing up his face. He didn't look shy. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else on the earth.  
  
Undaunted, Harry scooted closer and repeated himself: Liam, how'd you meet Liam?  
  
He'd been extremely curious only because Liam had been extremely vague with the details: _Well, he's got some brilliant tattoos...and he's tutoring one of Ben's nieces now, did you know?_ Zayn being fit might've also had a thing or two do with it.  
  
Zayn smiled with his cheekbones. I saw him rescue a kitten out of a tree, he said, wry - and that was the precise moment Harry realised they were fucking.  
  
What's going on here, then, Liam said, coming over with a grin. He was flushed and tipsy, practically popping out of his button down. Harry wanted to drink out of the dip in his collarbone; never knew until that very moment that he might not have minded.  
  
Nothing, said Zayn, and when they smiled at each other, it was like Harry wasn't there at all.

 

* * *

 

'It's only been eight hours,' Zayn says. From the other side of the counter - he's careful. 'So I guess you can go home, come back in, like, five days. After Boxing Day.'  
  
Harry stops going through the papers on the counter. '--Why'd you have Liam forge my signature on these?'  
  
'Ummm,' Zayn mumbles, staring hard at the rice cooker. 'I dunno, I just figured. like. he should be using his own money.'  
  
'You could've just asked _me_ to sign them,' Harry points out, leaning a little forward.  
  
Zayn suddenly finds a cupboard on the other side of the kitchen that desperately needs opening. Harry narrows his eyes. Alright, that's going to get very irritating very quickly.  
  
'Well, you're always in a rush, like. I didn't wanna slow you down,' Zayn says, while he checks and re-checks that the tin of Fortnum's is, indeed, still next to the Darjeeling.  
  
'Who's in a rush,' Harry says, idly. 'I don't have anywhere that needs going, really; I can stand to stop a little fraud.'  
  
Zayn turns to look at him. Harry does not blush. It's the 21st century, etc. That whole unfortunate incident occurred many, many, many minutes ago. Before he took a shower. In a whole 'nother room, even. They're practically different people now. Harry definitely is.  
  
'Didn't you have that gala thing this weekend, though?' asks Zayn. 'With, uh. with your friend Aimee?'  
  
Harry stares at him evenly. He hadn't actually thought Zayn ever listened to his rambling at the door; he'd mentioned that ages ago. 'If you have plans, you can just say so,' he says. Zayn never has plans. He has _appointments_ , he has errands, and he has naps – but never plans.  
  
Zayn strokes his beard. He talked about trimming it once, and for only a half-page, which means he's actually sort of self-conscious about it. Harry doesn't know why Liam doesn't like it; Harry certainly can't grow a beard, so it's not like they'd be competing for bristle.  
  
After a very long while, Zayn turns back around, swings the cupboard a little in place - it makes a tiny groaning noise. 'Ummm...Danny an' Ant were thinking of coming down tomorrow, actually. Y'know, before all the snow,' he says, slowly, which means it's as good as confirmed, and also that half of his family is probably coming, too.  
  
Harry's own parents left on a cruise for Jamaica yesterday, while he was on the way here. Gem's throwing some do for orphans or cholera or something before heading up to the Paynes'. He was invited; so was Zayn.  
  
'Oh. Alright,' says Harry, smiling. It's not a big deal. 'Then I'll just get out of your hair, shall I?'  
  
'--You should stay,' says Zayn, shutting the cupboard firmly. Harry keeps looking at his back, waiting for his thoughts to settle - is he unreadable? is he nervous? is he just being friendly? what does he want?  
  
Zayn turns to him fully, takes in a deep breath. 'You know. For tonight. Just in case Liam--' he shrugs stiffly '--wants to talk.'  
  
'Sure,' Harry says. His face feels hot. He can't look at Zayn anymore. It's stupid. He ruffles through the papers blindly, staring only at his hands. It's really stupid. 'Mm, y-- alright.'

 

* * *

 

Zayn lets him cook, for once.  
  
'This is pretty good,' he says, surprised, on the couch. On the telly, David speaks to them of the beautiful working relationship of the goatfish, the sea krait, and the trevally. Old habit, and not borne of any real pleasure or interest; they could both probably quote it by now.  
  
'It's just spaghetti,' Harry says, warmed in spite of himself. The trick is to sauté the capers and garlic together.  
  
'Oh. Yea. True.' Zayn licks his lips, chews properly before speaking again. 'Pretty difficult to mess up spaghetti.'  
  
'Then again,' Harry muses, 'it's also pretty difficult to mess up pancakes.'  
  
Zayn nudges him with his leg. 'I'm a busy man,' he says gravely, 'don't have time to be all domestic, like.'  
  
'Pity,' Harry murmurs, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He presses his leg back. Zayn sends him a sideways look; in the faint darkness, his glasses reflect back blue. Harry grins.

 

* * *

 

Harry stares at his suitcase in blank despair: he went from bringing only one change of clothes to bringing far too many. He's got something for every occasion. But nothing, somehow, for morally dubious hookups. Huge oversight, on his part. Had Ben taught him nothing?  
  
In the kitchen, he hears: the water shut off; the plates _slnkk_ against each other, in the rack; the lights turned off. Zayn pads up the hallway, singing under his breath, turns into the master bedroom. Leaves the door open, goes into the bathroom. Rummages around, starts brushing his teeth. Is this some sort of secret domestic mating call? Should Harry ask Zayn to wash his shirt? Sort out the recycling?  
  
'I'm taking a shower, 'kay, Haz?' Zayn calls. Maybe not, then.  
  
Harry slides the study room open a bit, sticks his head out. 'Don't use up all the hot water,' he says. Then, remembering how Zayn is about manners, adds: 'Please.'  
  
Zayn doesn't respond until he's at the door of his bedroom. He's taken his shirt off already.

Even seeing that little of him, even with a hallway of separation, feels huge and startling and strange.  
  
'You took a shower this morning,' says Zayn, in an unreadable tone.  
  
Harry swallows, hard. 'You can never be too clean?' He tries for a smile.  
  
Last night he almost fucked a blonde named Lori in the loo of Andina. He backed out only when he thought about what Zayn would think, seeing Liam walk around with scratches all over his--all over Harry's body.  
  
He wants Zayn to see how good he is; how good he's been.  
  
Zayn gives him a long look. 'Hm,' he says. 'Yea.'

 

* * *

 

When Harry comes out of the bathroom, Zayn's laid out on the couch, flipping through some comic (' _graphic novel_ ,' he always says, because no matter how much he protests, he's actually unflinchingly pretentious). The times seemed desperate, so Harry took appropriate measures: he's only wearing his pants. Zayn, for his part, is wearing a long dark grey robe - beneath it, a Fugees tee and some trackies. Gone are the nights of nudity, Harry thinks, and then his mind turns to Liam - and then he stops thinking.  
  
Zayn looks bored and thoughtful, barely even blinks when he sees Harry. 'Oh, you all done, then?' he says. He doesn't look aroused. He doesn't even look intent. But he keeps looking.  
  
Harry fights the urge to cover his nipples. 'Yea,' he says, slowly. Zayn nods, turns back to his comic, keeps flipping.  
  
Harry is confused. And cold. He takes a tentative step in the direction of the study, away from the living room. 'Well,' he says, testing. ''Night.'  
  
'Night,' says Zayn, distantly. He looks up when Harry stays stood there like an idiot. He makes a dully expectant face - flicked up eyebrows, small fake smile. 'Sleep well.'  
  
'Sleep well,' Harry mumbles, already turning to hide his face.

 

* * *

 

When Harry first wakes up, he's so disoriented he doesn't know where he is.  
  
'Mmm?' he says. It's dark and blurry and someone, Zayn, Zayn is shaking him. Harry curls away from his touch; he wants to stay asleep. But Zayn keeps shaking him, what's happening? Zayn's talking, saying...? Something, something, w--  
  
'--ake up, babe,' says Zayn. Harry leans up to look at his eyes. They're very big, without his glasses. Zayn drapes something soft and warm around his shoulders – his robe, oh, it's _cold_ , that's what that was. Harry's got goose pimples all over, just from sitting up. 'Power went out, you'll catch your death in here. C'mon. Up, up.'  
  
Harry nods agreeably, gets up. Zayn takes his hand, leads him out of the study – it's even colder in the hallway – and to the master bedroom. He trips, almost, climbing up on the bed; Zayn steadies him, climbs in behind him instead of on the other side.  
  
Harry drifts off to the feel of Zayn tightening the tie of the robe around him. 'Th'nk ymm,' he murmurs, making a pillow out of Zayn's shoulder.

 

* * *

 

When Harry next wakes up, it's only halfway.  
  
The world outside the window is purple and cloudy and filled with snow. The bedside light glows faintly; beyond it, darkness.  
  
'Zayn?' says  
                     someone,  
                                      in his voice. 'You awake?'  
  
A long pause - his body rolls over to the middle of the bed, peers over Zayn's shoulder. Zayn stares up at him; Harry's eyes look back. He feels his lips stretch into a smile.  
  
'Think the power's back on,'  
                                                says the voice.  
  
Harry's body shifts closer, beneath the covers. Zayn feels very tense and still.  
  
'--Harry,' Zayn says. His voice cracks. He's always easier, in the mornings, Harry knows, though he has no reason to.  
  
'Yes, Zayn?'  
                  the voice says,  
                                           sweetly, in almost exactly the way that Harry would.  
  
Maybe it is him, thinks Harry, maybe he just wants this so much--; and that's when he realises his hand has come to rest up on Zayn's waist, and that he can't pull it back at all.  
  
'Harry. we can't.' There's a spot, right behind Zayn's ear, that he's suddenly very interested in finding.  
  
'Why not?' Zayn smells good, Harry thinks. He's known it before, just like he's known Liam goes swimming in his body sometimes. The real thing, though--the real thing is like falling into the pool himself. Only it's not him doing this, it's not him speaking. 'Practically the same thing, isn't it?'  
  
God. Is that Liam thinks he sounds like? Is that what Zayn thinks he sounds like?  
  
'No, it's not,' Zayn says, shuddering, giving it up easily, really. 'You're shit at acting, for one. And you're nothing like Liam, for another.'  
  
Fuck it, thinks Harry. 'Good thing I'm not into roleplay, then,' he says, and then he hauls Zayn into a kiss.  
  
Zayn tastes flat and sour, and he patiently allows Harry to nip at him and use way too much tongue before he rolls him onto his back. Zayn slides his tongue over Harry's bottom lip - Harry makes a small noise in his throat - and then he leans back and gives Harry a look meant for someone else.  
  
'--Babe,' he chides, very gently. 'You don't have to act like him.'  
  
Harry feels his body still. 'Well,'  
                                                     says the voice,  
                                                                              very slowly, 'is there a reason I should want to?'  
  
Zayn scrunches up his eyebrows. '...Liam?'  
  
'--Zayn,' says Harry, after a moment.  
  
'H--' Zayn doesn't say his name, just narrows his eyes and stares down at him, hard. 'Liam. If this is you...I need you to say.'  
  
'Babes,' says Harry. 'It's me.'

 

* * *

 

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Harry,' says Zayn, three minutes later, when Harry's tripped spectacularly on his way to get the lube. He peers over the side of the bed, leans down and pets Harry's hair. 'You okay?'  
  
Harry continues his close inventory of the lint on Zayn's robe. ''M'brilliant,' he mumbles. Too many tells, he thinks. Zayn's nails scratch against his scalp; he tries not to react. Getting the lube was supposed to be _more_ convincing, not less.  
  
'Haz. If we do this,' says Zayn, very quietly, 'it has to be you.' Harry _hmm_ 's. 'I'm not gonna, like. lie n' say I was confused.'  
  
Oh, thinks Harry.  
  
The light flickers once and only once - and then it goes out completely. The room is doused in a sudden, shuddering darkness.  
  
Something in him wells up, up, up; it feels like ice, like bile, like water. It hurts, a little; he wishes there was a way to grab onto the feeling, to force it down instead of out. It's too soon, he thinks, hands scrambling for slippery walls; there's got to be another way. _He's not done yet._  
  
But the decision is taken out of his hands, out of his body, and all at once, all at once - it's over. And Harry is alone.  
  
But then there's Zayn. Zayn who's mumbling something about the heat. The power surges back on. 'Oh, hey,' he says, happily. ''Lectric's back, cool. No more shiverin', eh?' He slides his hand down Harry's head, warm and familiar, squeezes the back of his neck.  
  
Harry exhales through his nose. His head hurts, his chest aches, and all he wants-- all he wants is to sleep. He tilts his head up, looks at Zayn, hoping it was all an overreaction, a stupid mistake.  
  
But no - he still wants that, too. Of all things, that remains.  
  
'--Alright,' he says.  
  
Zayn pulls his hand back. 'Alright?' he says.  
  
Harry nods. 'Alright.'

 

* * *

 

They both like kissing, Zayn maybe moreso than Harry. Harry wants to tell him that he doesn't have to prove anything to him, that he's anything but a hard sell; but instead he just pushes forward into Zayn's lap and enjoys himself.  
  
Zayn unties the robe he gave him, pushes it apart, tugs Harry's pants down a little; digs his thumbs into his hips, squeezes his arse. Smooth, practised.  
  
Harry wonders if. He wonders if this is routine for Zayn. If this was how Liam liked it. If he's imagining Liam right now.  
  
'--Have you thought about me?' Harry asks, pulling away. Any moment now the guilt's going to swallow him whole; any moment now.  
  
Zayn hums, amused. ''Course I've thought about you,' he says. Harry dodges his lips when he leans back in for another kiss.  
  
'No,' he insists. He lets Zayn tug him closer, remains out of reach. 'Have you thought about _me_.'  
  
Zayn's eyes are dark. '--Yea,' he says, licking his mouth, and then leaning forward and licking Harry's. 'Yea, I've thought about you.'  
  
'When?' Harry demands. Zayn reaches for one of his wrists, leans up, kisses him, calms his shakes by stroking his other hand down Harry's back.  
  
Harry leans back, and he can't help but feel pathetic, but he has to ask: 'When.'  
  
Zayn keeps running his hand down Harry back, lower and lower; won't look directly in his face. 'The first night I met you,' he says, eventually. 'It wasn't―it wasn't, like, a big thing. I just knew it would really piss Liam off if I blew you in the men's. And you kept, like, leanin' all close, pretending to be interested.' He looks up with a faint grin, raises his hand to Harry's face; rubs his thumb along his bottom lip.  
  
Harry takes it into his mouth and sucks. Zayn's face goes blank. 'And I started thinking,' he murmurs, 'he's a very nice mouth on him, maybe he should do me.'  
  
I would've, Harry thinks, still sucking. I would've, I will, I want to.  
  
He guides Zayn's hand by the wrist, presses his thumb down his chest, 'till it's dry and digging into the space below his ribs. Zayn sends him a soft, quizzical look, leans forward, presses a wet kiss up on the Madame. Harry huffs out a laugh. It feels good, but fun good, not sexy good. Zayn keeps his eyes on him when he takes one of Harry's smaller nipples in his mouth – 'the lesser An-nip-plese,' Liam called them, oh fuck, why is he thinking about Liam right now –  humming when Harry gasps aloud.  
  
It's only because he's had his head filled with him for so long that he almost says: 'Li--'  
  
He doesn't even get a chance to apologise. Zayn pushes him firmly back against the bed, nudges his legs open. He blinks slowly, thoughtfully when Harry doesn't do anything besides let out a startled breath.  
  
He drags his hands up Harry's thighs, slow and firm, to his hips; slides his pants down a bare few centimetres. Glances into Harry's face, intent and unsmiling.  
  
Harry sucks in a breath, keeps himself still. Zayn pulls his pants the rest of the way off, pressing Harry's right knee down when it stays raised up. Then he leans back, stares at him. Harry wonders what he looks like, completely naked, flushed and erect; laid out on top of Zayn's robe, on top of his bed. He tries to hold himself still. Tries not to cover himself up, tries not to beg.  
  
Zayn looks at him for what feels like forever. 'Y'know,' he says, finally, breaking into a small grin. 'I don't think I'm much into roleplay, either.' And then he licks down Harry's stomach until he's squirming with laughter.

 

* * *

 

'What do you think he'll say,' Zayn mumbles, later, kissing between his nipples, and then above. Harry's entire chest feels oversore and oversensitive.  
  
He trembles a little, stares down at Zayn's back. Stars, not circles, Zayn said; marking out Capricornus. And in the middle, sprawled sideways, an enormous, tacky tiger. Bright blood orange. One of the few big purchases he'd made after buying his parents a house.  
  
'Who knows,' Harry says, softly, knowing: he won't say anything.  
  
Zayn looks up at his tone, flicks him playfully on the chin. Harry scrunches his nose up, ready to scowl if need be, but then Zayn leans up, hair brushing against Harry's face, and kisses him into a small smile.  
  
He says something, later, but Harry's falling asleep already, pleased, empty, sad; and he doesn't hear.  
  
  
  
+  
  
  
  
Liam doesn't come back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ (ghost in the sheets)](http://reqrdala.tumblr.com/post/74097426017/ghost-in-the-sheets-34-min-66-2-mb-more)


	3. Spring

  
  
  
  
  
_You, darling; you still hover_  
  
  
  
  
  
Zayn sells the flat and buys a dog.  
  
His colleagues think him a bit standoffish but that's fine. Ms Hempstead – 'Call me June, please,' she always says – invited him out to the nearest pub after the first day, for a bit of a getting-to-know-all-the-things-about-you do. Zayn gave her a smile, picked something imaginary off his shirt with his left hand, made sure she could see the ring. Well, I would, he said, but--. She hasn't asked again.  
  
Anyway he doesn't think she's interested anymore – he had a few bad days a couple of months ago, couldn't be arsed to do laundry and ended up wearing the same shirt three days in a row. Ever since then, Ms Hempstead keeps 'accidentally' overpacking her lunch and sending him soft, pitying glances during the morning meetings.  
  
'I just think it's so brave of him, you know? to try to--to rise against his circumstances,' he hears her saying once. 'And with a _family_ , too.'  
  
'Mm-hm,' says Ean, the groundskeeper, who's seen Zayn's other car.  
  
The kids are great, totally sweet, horrible shriek demons walking the earth. In the past week alone, Kele has ruined no less than six separate books for his classmates, Mara has decided she prefers playing tag rugby with her tongue instead of with her hands, and Jenner refuses to respond to any girl in any language other than Dinosaur Growl. Then there's Farah. Farah's Zayn's secret favourite; she can be a bit demanding, though.  
  
Thursday, during second playtime, she corners him in tears: 'Yonnie said because I stepped on a frog that I'm a _murderer_ , and also, also, the frog ghosts are gonna follow me home and eat my mu-u-um.' She throws her head back and starts sobbing.  
  
A lot of what kids say is lost in translation; handling them well is an art. 'Ohh, Farah, Ayana was just teasing you,' says Zayn. 'There's no such thing as, as frog ghosts.'  
  
Ayana, upon hearing her name, pops her head in the doorway with a smile. Blessed with all the keen observational skills of the frequently guilty, she takes in the situation at a glance, blanches, and then takes off running down the hall. Zayn'll have a chat with her later.  
  
Farah, it seems, just needed a little bit of a cry; she's been having a little trouble adjusting to her dad's new work schedule. Five minutes later she's calmed down some. 'I-I saw a ghost once,' she says, about to wipe her eyes with the bottom of her jumper. Zayn pointedly hands her a box of tissue.  
  
'I saw a ghost once,' she repeats, bravely, after she's very loudly blown her nose.  
  
Zayn holds out the bin. 'Did you now.'  
   
Farah nods. 'It was my mum's mum,' she says, dropping her tissue inside. 'She got sick but Dad said, um--we couldn't visit, basically. Anyway Mum was waiting by the phone for news, and she fell asleep and Dad told Nasir to watch her but Nasir wasn't!, he was _playing FIFA_ \--' she quickly moves on once she remembers that Zayn's way out of his jurisdiction there '--anyway, I went upstairs, into her room?, and when I went inside, um, she was sat in the chair, just, like, looking over my Mum. She was all blue and like, really _dead_. Anyway, we got the news that she'd died that _night_ , it was well creepy.' She blushes a little. 'Well sad, too, of course. And Nasir says I made it up, but I _didn't!_ , I would _never_ make that up.'  
  
She peers up at him. 'Do you believe me, Mr Malik?'  
  
Zayn knows the book she got some of her story from – _Creepy Crawlies To Keep You Up At Night!_ – she read it obsessively for weeks, every time they visited the library. He also knows that her grandfather passed away about a month ago and that her parents couldn't afford to fly home for the funeral. He puts the box back down, comes out from behind his desk. 'I believe...that there are a lot of things about the world that we don't understand.'  
  
Farah grins, hopping a little as she follows him out of the room. 'That's what my dad said when I asked him how the telly works.' She stops short when she sees Ayana waiting near the cubbies, at the other end of the hall; she's practically vibrating with the need to apologise.  
  
'What _I_ don't think _I'll_ ever understand,' says Farah, raising her head and her voice, just so, 'is why _some people_ are mean to their _friends_.'  
  
'Farah!' shouts Ayana. 'I'm s--'  
  
'Girls,' scolds Zayn, sensing Headmistresses on the wind.  
  
'Farah!' whisper-shouts Ayana. 'I'm sorry! I was just joking, honest. You're not a murderer, you're just a squasher, and they don't even have prisons for that, I don't think. Also I shouldn't have said that frog ghosts were gonna eat your mum - it was mean, and also untrue, probably, and I'm really really sorry.'  
  
Farah tosses her long hair back fussily as she walks down the hall. 'Of _course_ I knew you were joking,' she says, in a very superior tone. She really does boss Ayana about terribly; Zayn'll have to have a chat with her, too. 'Who would ever think that ghosts are real?'

 

* * *

 

In the end he did have to move back home for a while. His mum couldn't understand it. 'I don't know what happened. It's so-- it's like he's lost him all over again,' she'd say, on the phone two floors away – perfectly audible in the vast, echoing house – while upstairs Zayn's dad stroked his hair back from his face, and brought him food he couldn't eat, and hurt for him. 'He was doing so much better, Mum. He was, he was even talking about going back to _work_ and--God. It just--it just breaks my heart.'  
  
Doniya would sometimes come 'round, drop Anaam off in his room, leave them some tea while she checked in with Mum. Zayn always tried to nibble on a biscuit, for Anaam's sake; he never wanted to make her eat alone.  
  
She never seemed to mind his silences, just chattered on about her day, and about what she'd learnt; about her best friend Ruhiya, from school, and her other best friend Yasmeen, from the masjid, and her other, _other_ best friend Mooey, from her imagination; about Javadd, and about how boring he was; about the trees near her window; about how hugs were good for when you were sad; about what Daddy had packed her for lunch... and so on and so forth.  
  
One day, she read him a paragraph she'd written in class:

 

_A Person I Admire_

  
I admire my uncle Zayn because he is very clever, and he is very nice and he has always hep―he has always _helped_ us out. My baby brother is named after him. Uncle Zayn is not the type of person to treat you meanly. He does not raise his voice. Some people who raise their voice are scary but Uncle Zayn is not, he is very nice. He is a teacher and he is very succ―very suc _cess_ ful. Because of him, I want to be a teacher also.  
  
  
Zayn wanted so badly to say, 'That's so well-written, good job!' He wanted to say, 'Thank you for choosing me'. He wanted to say, 'You are so, so smart, bhanji'; 'I love you'; 'I'm not very nice at all'.  
  
But he couldn't find the words, he couldn't find the breath; and Anaam went on talking without noticing.

 

* * *

 

He tried to bargain, at first.  
  
If you come back, I'll go wherever you want me to.  
  
If you come back, I won't go back to work.  
  
If you come back, I won't ever touch anyone else again.  
  
If you come back, you can do whatever you want with me.  
  
If you come back, I'll take a shower.  
  
If you come back, I'll get out of this bed.  
  
If you come back, I'll eat.  
  
Liam didn't come.

 

* * *

 

It was Harry, actually, who got him out of bed. Harry who he never wanted to see again, Harry who he'd thought would never want to see him again, either.  
  
When Zayn saw him stood in the doorway of his bedroom, he flinched all over and couldn't stop. Harry'd looked horrible, like when he'd first appeared to Zayn as himself - pinched skin, terrible complexion, huge, tired eyes.  
  
Harry didn't pay him any mind, just shoved him over in bed. Let out a huge sigh. Zayn's heart was racing – was it-- could it be--?  
  
'Sorry,' said Harry, quietly. 'It's just me.'  
  
'I'm. Hhhungry,' he said, an hour or three later. Zayn didn't know how to respond, so he didn't. Just stared out the window, like he'd been doing for days. Weeks. He'd taken down the blinds his first day there - the sun shone full into his room, woke him up early, saw him to sleep. Most nights, the moon kept him company.  
  
'Zayn,' said Harry, nudging him. 'I'm hungry.'  
  
So am I, thought Zayn. So fucking what.  
  
Harry nudged him again. 'Zayn.'  
  
Zayn caught his eye in a glare, stared pointedly at the plates by his bedside: eggs and toast on one plate, roast beef sandwich and chips on the other. Harry was spoiled for choice, really.  
  
Apparently he was just spoiled, full stop, because he wrinkled up his nose and said, 'I'm not going to eat your _leftovers_ , Zayn, c'mon.' He nudged him again, this time with his thigh. Zayn froze at the touch; Harry didn't make notice. 'I feel like something spicy today. Maybe a curry?' He pressed their thighs firmly together, the only things between them the sheets, their clothing. Zayn pressed his eyes shut and tried to breathe. 'What do you think?'  
  
'I think you'd better get some takeaway,' Zayn said, carefully. His voice cracked anyway.  
  
'But they don't make it like you do, Zayn. C'mon, make me some. Ple-e-ease?' Harry blinked his eyes, jutted out his lower lip slightly. It was disgusting; he was far too old to be acting that precious. 'You're the best chef in Britain.'  
   
Zayn snorted before he could stop himself. 'Nah,' he said, raising his head a bit. He stretched his neck. 'My mum is.'  
  
'The second best chef in Britain, then,' said Harry. 'Second best in the UK, definitely.' Zayn rolled his eyes. Apparently Harry took that as encouragement. 'Second best in Europe. Second best in the Northern Hemisphere. Second best on the _pla_ -net. Second best in the _galaxy_. Second best in the _universe_. Second best in the--in the--'  
  
'Alright, just shut up, okay? I'll make you a fuckin' curry,' said Zayn, sitting up.

 

* * *

 

Some nights it still feels like there's a weight pressing down against his lungs. It doesn't happen all that often anymore, but it still does sometimes. Sometimes Harry's there, sometimes Danny's there; often Zayn's alone.  
  
He thought it was Liam at first, trying to crush the life out of him, trying to punish him. Hoped it was, prayed it was. Spoke even with Waliyha about it.  
  
Do you believe that people can come back. And. like. haunt us? Like, when we do something wrong? He asked, after taking her out for dinner.  
  
He couldn't look at her when he said it. The air was warm, still smelled of sweaty perfume and spilled beer. They'd passed an early-hours-drunk group of women a little while back: they were friendly and loud, shouted compliments about Waliyha's dress until she laughed. It was Waliyha's first birthday back home since James's accident, and she was giggly and sad and distracted with her mobile; and there was still no way she wouldn't know what he meant.  
  
She stopped in the middle of the pavement and stared at him for a very long time. Then she hooked their arms together, made him slow to her pace. You can't think like that, she murmured. It's--wallah, it's just grief, Zayn. Don't hold onto it, okay? It'll come...and when it comes, let it come. And when it's done -- let it go.

 

* * *

 

The morning of Liam's death –  a Sunday, this year – Zayn dreams of him for the first time in a long time. It's been nearly two years since the first time he left; only one since the second.  
  
Liam's wearing a suit. Not like the suit they buried him in – this one's sharp and dark brown. He looks strong and happy; he looks like himself. He holds out his hand, to lead Zayn to the floor. Zayn can't hide.  
  
The floor is water beneath their feet. Zayn can't tell if they're swimming or if they're dancing.  
  
I'm sorry, he tries to say, but an inside-out tuna wriggles out of his mouth, pink and bloody and soft.  
  
I miss you, he tries to say, but a burning lump of coal falls from his tongue.  
  
I love you, he says.  
  
Liam says nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't want to get out of bed.  
  
Swayze must know; instead of barking for him in the kitchen-dining room-living room area, she pushes open his door with her nose and click-clacks inside. Swayz' allowed to sleep anywhere but the side room, because that's where he prays, but usually she just chooses to curl up outside his door. Today she climbs up onto his bed, lays down beside him. Puts her head over his rib.  
  
He smiles at her, closes his eyes again.  
  
Swayze whinges, low in her throat. He opens his eyes. She nudges his side.  
  
 _Don't be sad._  
  
Zayn huffs out a laugh, runs his palm over her head, gently. Softly. Behind her ears, down to her thin blue collar.  
  
'Alright, Swayz,' he whispers, after a while. 'Alright.'  
  
He gets out of bed.

 

* * *

 

Swayze barks loudly when she sees Harry, leaning against Zayn's car. 'Good girl,' Zayn mumbles, grinning. Harry makes a sight: slightly tanned and in his good black suit; open peacoat; no ridiculous scarf. Must've come here straight from the church.  
  
'Ought to switch up your routine some,' Harry says, smiling. He looks tired, and sad. 'You'd make it very easy for a stalker to find you.'  
  
'Let 'em,' he says, calming Swayze with a little scritch behind her ears. 'I'm mad borin'.' It's true. Every Sunday's the same: grading from 6 to noon, lesson planning from 2 to 4, a walk in the park with Swayze at 5, dinner with whomever's nearest, talking to Mum 'till 9. Zayn likes having options, but all in all, he's basically a creature of habit.  
  
Today's a little different, though.  
  
He tosses his fag to the ground, crushes it with the heel of his trainer.  
  
'Are we smoking again, then?' asks Harry. He sounds hopeful.  
  
'Just for today,' Zayn says; he doesn't offer him anything. That's not what Harry comes to him for. '--Happy anniversary.'  
  
'Happy anniversary.' Harry flips his hair back, glances around them idly. Ever since he dated that hairdresser, he's been wearing it long again. Swayz comes out from behind Zayn's legs to investigate Harry's shoes. 'Aunt Karen was hoping you'd come.'  
  
Zayn nods – that's all he has to say on the subject. Any other day he could've smilingly suffered through Geoff's Opinions On Immigrants. 'How was the service.'  
  
'Oh. well. Long,' Harry sighs. 'Extremely Methodist.' Whatever that means - Zayn doesn't care to know. Harry bends down to put his forehead against Swayze's, looking as though he's trying to telepathically communicate something very important.  
  
Swayze endures this indignation briefly before she huffs sharply and backs up, towards Zayn. Harry pouts. 'Why doesn't the dog like me?'  
  
'Because you're weird, babe,' Zayn says, unlocking his doors. 'And because you refuse to call her by her name.'  
  
Swayz hops up into the backseat eagerly, sends Zayn a dubious look when he doesn't immediately close the door after strapping her in: _you're not going to make me sit next to him, are you?_ Zayn grins, gently shuts the door.  
  
'I'm not calling a bloody dog _Swayze_ ,' Harry says, with a disarming smile. In the car, Swayze yips. 'It's morbid.' His smile widens. ' _Zayn_.'  
  
'Oh, and you'd know all about that, wouldn't ya,' says Zayn, walking around the back to the driver's seat. ' _Harry_.'  
  
'Not sure I know what you mean,' says Harry, morbidly. He bends down, frowns at Zayn through the glass window. 'Hey. Let me in. It's freezing.' A woman in a tank top jogs by.  
  
'It's unlocked, man,' says Zayn. Harry continues frowning. 'For fuck's sake,' he mutters, leaning across the seat to open the door. 'You're so fuckin' lazy, Haz, like, I swear to God.'  
  
'I like to think of it as providing people with opportunities to be kind,' Harry corrects, slamming his door shut. Swayze flinches. 'Some would call it giving.'  
  
Zayn leans back around, lowers his head, speaks to Swayz in a calm, gentle voice. Her last owner was a fucking monster - when Zayn first got her, she was too scared to even eat in the same room as him. 'Don't slam my doors,' he says, kissing her nose.  
  
'Excuse me, “ _your_ doors”? Do not try to forget our custody agreement, Zayn, I _bought_ you this car,' Harry says. He's fuckin' impossible.  
  
'You helped me pick it out, calm down,' says Zayn, grinning when Swayze licks his cheek.  
  
Never one for being ignored, Harry quickly chooses something else to complain about: 'Why're you parked in backwards?, it's gonna take you ages to get out.'  
  
'Shut it,' says Zayn, sweetly, turning back around. He sees Harry tapping his fingers against his knees. Anxious, then. He could've as easily gone to Kev as not. 'Have you eaten yet? I was gonna pick up something.'  
  
Harry _hmm_ 's, draws one of his hands up, rubs his finger across his lips - he takes his eats very seriously. He's also secretly a pushover: all of his attempts to 'improve' Zayn's palate quickly turned into him eating as many trashy things as Zayn pushed at him. 'What were you thinking?'  
  
'There's a McDonald's, like. a couple streets over,' says Zayn, slowly. It's actually quite a ways away. They both know L'Anima is closer. Zayn's not dressed for it, though; Harry is.  
  
Harry shrugs. 'Mm. I could eat.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suffering from grief is not, actually, a legitimate reason for wishing or inflicting repeated emotional trauma on others.
> 
> I. In order, the poems quoted at the beginning of each section are: Kamala Das's "The Suicide," Mehrdad Fallah's "Of This Bridge," and Su Lynn Cheah's "The Keel"  
> II. Fall scenes take place in Reculver. Winter scenes take place in an exciting alternate universe where there are 400 months before 25 Dec  
> III. There is no Pho-nomenal! in Peckham.  
> IV. Didn't come up with the idea of Liam as a Marine Bio nerd; have no real life reason to think he's Methodist.  
> V. Can I get some feedback lol


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